


3384 Miles

by flawedamythyst



Series: Seduction By Winglet [10]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cracks in Martin and Tony's relationship start to show under the strain of the distance between them.</p><p>Betaed by Justlikeluna. Thanks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“...so Cap gave an impassioned speech about, I don't even know, morality and ethics and using your powers for good and not for winding up national heroes or some such bull, and while the kid was distracted by that, Black Widow crept up behind him and stunned him. By the time he came to, we'd taken out his little avian pals and he was locked up in SHIELD custody. I swear, no one ever suspects Cap of being a sneaky mofo. The number of times he's used that speech as a distraction is insane.”

Tony glanced down at Martin's head, which was cradled in his lap. He'd turned up in New York exhausted after a few days of long flights and rapidly fluctuating time zones, and clearly not in the mood for any grand plans Tony might or might not have had for taking advantage of the fact they were actually in the same place at the same time. Instead, Tony had let him collapse on the sofa in the private sitting room attached to his bedroom and was gently stroking his fingers through his hair as he told him all about the latest super-powered brat.

“Mind you, his face is all squarely-determined earnestness, he's never going to look like he's capable of that level of bullshit.”

Martin let out a quiet murmur and Tony leaned forward to see his face. He was fast asleep.

Typical. The first time in weeks that their schedules had managed to match up and Martin was too tired to even stay awake for one conversation. Tony let disappointment roll through him for a moment before he ruthlessly stifled it. It was hardly Martin's fault that MJN was seeing a lot of business at the moment. In fact, Tony had an uncomfortable feeling that it might be his. Being the private jet of choice for Stark Industries was pretty good advertising and it wasn't as if Tony hadn't taken a few obvious chances to talk MJN up to various people.

“Hey, hey, Spitfire,” he said, brushing his hand over Martin's head with a bit more force and then curling over to press a kiss to his forehead. “C'mon, wake up.”

Martin's eyes fluttered open and he frowned up at him. “Tony? Oh, sorry. I fell asleep.”

“Yeah, no shit,” said Tony. “Must be my charming and erudite conversation. C'mon, let's get you to bed.”

Martin sat up stiffly, rubbing at his face. “I'm sorry. I wanted to listen, I just couldn't keep my eyes open.”

Tony stood up and held his hands out, helping him up to his feet. “Then you should definitely be in bed.”

Martin stood up with a little groan of exertion, one which made Tony think of other occasions when he'd made similar noises under rather different circumstances. Man, he wasn't even going to get laid tonight.

“Yeah, okay,” said Martin, with resignation.

Tony followed him next door into his bedroom, where Martin sat down on the bed with a sigh.

“My body just has no idea what time it is at the moment,” he said. “I'm not even sure my mind knows.”

Tony knelt down and started taking off his shoes for him.

“Oh, you don't-” started Martin.

“I want to,” said Tony, firmly. “C'mon, let me sort you out and get you in bed, yeah?”

Martin sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“Are you going to be okay to fly tomorrow?” asked Tony. He pulled off Martin's shoes and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Oh, yeah,” said Martin. “We're not taking off until nine. I'll have had plenty of sleep by then.”

He shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and Tony took the chance to ogle his naked flesh. Usually when he helped Martin take his shirt off it ended up so much better than this was going to. He tried to restrain his arousal, but it wasn't easy when Martin undid his trousers and then wriggled them off. Tony distracted himself by pulling out Martin's pyjamas for him.

“Thanks,” said Martin, pulling them on. “I'm sorry, I wanted to actually spend some time with you.”

He sounded just as annoyed as Tony was, which made Tony's own irritation melt away. He leaned in to kiss Martin. “Just get some sleep,” he said, pulling the covers back so that Martin could crawl under them. He settled them back over him and had to resist the urge to do something weirdly parental, like smooth them down. Instead, he stroked Martin's hair again.

“We'll have breakfast,” he said. “Spend time together then, when you can keep your eyes open.”

“Okay,” said Martin as his eyelids drooped shut. “That sounds nice.”

He was asleep in seconds. Tony watched him for longer than he'd care to admit to before standing up and wondering what he should do now. He'd blocked this time off to spend with Martin, with strict instructions to everyone that he wasn't to be disturbed.

Being a genius inventor meant there was always a project or six waiting for him in the workshop. He couldn't muster his usual enthusiasm for any of them in the face of his sinking disappointment, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to lose himself in them once he got down there.

****

Tony didn't actually end up getting any sleep. As usual, once he was surrounded by circuit boards and welding torches, he was able to drown out everything else in his mind, at least temporarily.

JARVIS lowered his music at around six thirty to say, “Captain Crieff has asked me to let you know that he's awake and is going to have a shower.”

Tony looked at the time and realised he'd been working for nine hours straight. “Huh. Okay, great. Guess this can wait until after breakfast, then. Tell Martin to come down and meet me in the kitchen once he's ready.”

It wasn't until he'd got to the kitchen that he realised he had no idea how to provide breakfast. It was one of those meals that just seemed to appear.

Coffee. He could make coffee. That was where he should start. He put the coffee machine on and then opened the fridge to survey his choices. Who knew there was that much stuff in there? What even was it all?

Steve came in while he was staring at the eggs, wondering if he should risk making another omelette or if he should accept that it had been a once-in-a-lifetime achievement.

“You're up early,” said Steve. “Ah, no, let me guess. You haven't been to bed yet.”

Tony shut the fridge. “Why go to bed when I can stay up all night and make astounding technological breakthroughs? Hey, Cap, do you know how to cook omelettes? Without anyone calling the emergency services?”

Steve looked completely surprised for a moment, then clearly the dots connected in his head and he gave an amused smile. “I think Martin usually just has toast for breakfast.”

Tony let out a sigh of relief. “Toast? Toast I can do. Awesome. No need for the fire truck just yet.”

“No, it's not as if a toaster has ever caused major damage to this kitchen,” said Steve.

“That was Thor and Arthur,” said Tony, pulling out some bread. “C'mon, I'm not great at cooking, but I'm not _Thor_.”

Martin came in while the toast was still in the toaster. He was dressed in his uniform with his jacket slung over one arm and his bag in the other hand, clearly all ready to go. Tony's heart sank at the visible sign that their time together was already nearly over.

“Good morning,” he said, sounding a bit formal as he always did when one of the other Avengers was present. Tony had done his best to make it very clear that they were all just ordinary people, some of whom were complete idiots – and yes, he is talking about Clint – but somehow it never seemed to sink in.

“Spitfire!” said Tony, abandoning the toast in favour of greeting Martin with an enthusiastic kiss, which broke through Martin's early morning 'oh god Captain America is in the same room as me eating Wheaties' awkwardness rather nicely.

“I made you coffee,” he said, once he'd made sure that Martin had been thoroughly greeted.

“Oh, lovely,” said Martin, his eyes lighting up.

“And burnt toast,” added Steve.

“What?” said Tony, turning towards the toaster. Black smoke was billowing from the top. “Oh, crap. Hang on.”

He rescued the toast, which was now mostly charcoal, and gave Martin a rueful look. “Okay, well, I tried.”

“It was a valiant effort,” said Martin, hiding a smile as he pulled out two fresh slices of bread.

"I'll leave you two to it," said Steve, finishing his cereal. "I'm going for a run." He put his bowl in the dishwasher and left.

The moment he was gone, Martin stepped back close to Tony and kissed him again. “You know, I asked JARVIS to mention that I was having a shower earlier because I sort of hoped you'd come and join me in it.”

Tony stared at him. “Oh man, I completely missed that. We could have had shower sex! Christ, what is wrong with me? I should have come up with that myself.” He shook his head. “I'm so disappointed with myself, you have no idea.”

The toaster pinged and Martin turned away to deal with his toast. “It's okay, really.”

It wasn't okay. Tony had missed his chance at getting some Crieff-sex on this visit. That was heartbreaking. Crieff-shower sex at that; even worse!

“Next time,” he said. “Next time, we'll start in the shower, then hit as many horizontal surfaces as we can find. Oh, oh, this table would take our weight, I had to reinforce it coz of Thor's fist-pounding, we could totally have sex right here, right now-”

“No,” said Martin, sitting down with his toast.

“No?” repeated Tony with frustration.

Martin shook his head. “There's not enough time before I have to be at the airport, I don't want to get my uniform, um, messed up, and there are a lot of people who could walk into this kitchen at any moment.”

Tony collapsed into the chair opposite him. “You and your logic,” he said grumpily. “I don't suppose you'd let me come up with an urgent SI reason for MJN to need to stay in New York for another day or two?”

Martin sighed. “I wish I could, but we've got other bookings.”

“Oh, come on, you know I'm far more important than any of your other clients,” said Tony. Martin glared at him and Tony gave up. “Fine, okay, great, I'll let you jet off to merry old England and leave your sexy boy-toy behind. Heartbreaker.”

“ _Sexy boy-toy_?” repeated Martin.

Tony raised an offended eyebrow. “Are you implying I'm not sexy?”

“I can't imagine anyone saying that,” said Martin, his eyes running over Tony's body in a way that made Tony bitterly regret missing out on sex with him. Christ, what had he been thinking? “But they might point out that you’re older than me and technically a boy-toy should be, you know, younger.”

“I’ve been reliably informed I’m as flexible as a man half my age. Or, well, two-thirds of my age, anyway. Maybe three-quarters,” said Tony. “Definitely flexible enough for sex over the table.”

“I’m not saying you’re not capable,” said Martin. “In fact, given what we did on my sofa last time you were in Fitton, I’d say you were flexible enough for almost any piece of furniture.”

That sent a whole flurry of mental images rushing through Tony's head, detailing exactly which positions would work best with the nearest pieces of furniture. He cleared his throat and changed the subject because if they kept talking about sex, he really was going to ravish Martin over the table and, unfortunately, Martin's reasons why that was a bad idea had been dead on.

“You going to be okay to fly today?” he asked instead, remembering how tired Martin had been last night. “No nodding off over the controls?”

“I'm fine,” said Martin. “I got plenty of sleep.”

“Yeah, that's true,” said Tony. He didn't quite manage to keep the bitter note out of his voice, but hopefully Martin wouldn't notice.

“Unlike you,” added Martin.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Everyone is so critical of my all-nighters. I'll have you know I've done some of my best work during all-nighters. The entire hydraulics system of the Quinjet, for example.”

Martin frowned. “Wasn't that the bit that JARVIS said was likely to blow up?”

“No,” snapped Tony. “That was the- You know what? It doesn't matter. It's all fixed now, nothing's going to blow up, it's already halfway built.”

“Halfway built already?” said Martin, sitting forward. “When's it likely to be finished?”

“As soon as you're around to launch it for me,” said Tony. “I'm thinking we have a bit of a party, champagne broken across the prow, the whole works. Just for the Avengers and close friends, obviously, no point in having an ultra top-secret, hi-tech plane if we then invite the whole world to come and steal its secrets at a launch party.”

“It's not the prow, it's the nose,” corrected Martin. “And are you sure you want to break glass on it? It might damage the paintwork.”

“The paintwork will be fine,” said Tony. “Besides which, we'll be flying it on combat missions against, I don't know, evil robots and aliens and such. I think it's going to need respraying pretty often as it is.”

“I suppose so,” said Martin, but Tony could tell that the idea of deliberate damage to a plane still went against everything he held dear.

“Fine, okay, we'll use flowers or something instead, and just drink the champagne,” he relented, and was rewarded with a smile.

“That sounds better,” said Martin. He glanced at his watch and made a face. “I have to go.”

“Yeah,” said Tony with a sigh. “Okay, well, awesome to see you, as always, but maybe a bit longer next time? When is next time, anyway? JARVIS?”

There was an ominous pause. “I'm afraid that the next time you and Captain Crieff have a scheduling match up won't be for four weeks,” said JARVIS.

“What?” said Tony. “Come on, that can't be right. Four weeks?”

Martin looked equally unhappy. “We're heading into yacht-buying season," he said. “Mr Alyakin has us flying rich people to every posh marina in the world.”

“I could buy a yacht from him,” said Tony. “Get him to fly us somewhere nice first, where we could have a mini-break next to the sea while I pretended to be making my mind up about it.”

“Don't you already have a yacht?” asked Martin.

“I've got two,” admitted Tony.

“Actually, Sir, you have three,” interrupted JARVIS.

Oh right, Tony always forgot about that one. “Whatever, you can never have too many yachts, right?”

Martin pressed his lips together in a facial expression Tony instantly recognised as the one he adopted when he was contemplating the vast financial differences between them. It was not a good facial expression.

“Okay, okay, fine,” he relented. “No more yachts. Maybe I'll find an excuse to come to the land of tea and crumpets. JARVIS, there must be a couple of days when I only have stuff I can ditch, yeah?”

“There is nothing that Miss Potts would be happy with you 'ditching',” said JARVIS.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like Pepper is the best judge of what's important. It's cool, I'll look it over later, find a window.”

“Well, until then, then,” said Martin, standing up and coming over to Tony. He took his shoulders and pressed what Tony realised was a goodbye kiss to his lips.

“Oh no,” he said. “No, well, okay, I mean, yes, obviously,” he paused to return the kiss, making sure to amp it up a bit. “Always yes to that,” he continued. “But, no, not just yet. I'll see you to the airport.”

“Oh, you don't have to-” started Martin, which was so much bullshit Tony couldn't stand it so he kissed him again to shut him up.

“Who cares about 'have to'?” he asked. “If I come with you, we get double the time we've had together this trip with both of us awake.” Wow, that was depressingly accurate.

Martin smiled at him. “Okay,” he said, and kissed Tony again which was totally fine, Tony was really up for them just trading kisses in the kitchen for the next three years or so.

They didn't have the next three years, though. Martin only let Tony distract him for a few minutes before pulling away and insisting it was time to leave. Damn his conscientious attitude to his job.

The ride to the airport was way too short and Tony found himself saying goodbye to Martin for real way too quickly.

“One day, I'm totally going to crack and just lock you up so you can't ever leave,” he said, gripping onto Martin's hands to stop him going through Security and leaving Tony behind.

Martin let out a half-laugh that meant he didn't realise how serious Tony was. “You could keep me in your workshop, next to Dummy and Butterfingers,” he said. “Just remember I need more than motor oil to live off.”

Tony scoffed. “I'd never forget that,” he said. “You need loads more stuff. Food, water and regular exposure to aviation, right?”

Martin's smile widened. “Right,” he agreed, and glanced over his shoulder at the window, where a Learjet 45 was just taxiing along the runway.

Tony took the hint and forced himself to let go of Martin's hands so that he could go and do what he loved. “Okay, fine. Call me when you get back to England, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Martin. He kissed him again, and left.

Tony watched him go in a way that totally wasn't pathetic or mopey, mostly because he was watching Martin's ass in his uniform trousers. Man, he hated to see him leave, but he loved to watch him go.

And then he went back home, where he slumped onto a sofa and realised he was in exactly the same place and mood as he had been after Martin's last visit, on their anniversary. How did they keep failing to actually spend meaningful amounts of time together?

He tipped his head back against the sofa and thought about going back down to the workshop to finish what he'd been working on all night.

In a moment. He was just going to rest his eyes first. Just for a second.

When he woke up, it was getting on to mid-afternoon and his neck was killing him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered. “JARVIS, don't let me sleep like that again. I'm too young to need a chiropractor.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony stood up, his joints cracking. “Ugh,” he said, shaking his head. “Coffee. Then the workshop.”

He headed for the kitchen, but his eye caught on the bar on the way. Booze would help. Booze always helped.

He poured himself a glass and tossed it back then poured another one. Fuck it, he'd cut back a lot over the last year, he could afford to go a bit nuts, right?

He scooped up the bottle and took it with him down to the workshop. He'd finish the circuit he'd been working on while getting a bit of a buzz. Best plan he'd had in ages.

****

****

Whenever JARVIS answered Tony's phone for him, it was a struggle for Martin to not immediately jump to the worst conclusions.

“Good evening, Captain Crieff. I'm afraid Mr. Stark is unable to come to the phone right now.”

“Oh god,” whimpered Martin. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“Mr. Stark is fine,” said JARVIS. “Apologies, I did not mean to cause concern. He is merely sleeping.”

“Oh,” said Martin, relief flooding through him. “Oh, good. That's....wait, isn't it two in the afternoon there?”

“The current time is 2.08 pm,” said JARVIS. “Mr. Stark did not get to sleep until very early this morning.”

Martin frowned. He hadn't seen anything about any Avengers call-outs in the news. But then, they did things that slipped under the radar more often than Martin had realised before he met Tony.

“Was there superhero business?”

JARVIS hesitated. Martin felt his shoulders tense up again. “I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the reasons behind Mr Stark's choice of bedtime.”

“Oh,” said Martin, trying to work out what that meant. Had Tony just stayed up too late in the workshop again and didn't want Martin to know? Was something horrific and top secret happening with a supervillain? What else would Tony want to keep secret from Martin?

Unfortunately, the paranoid part of Martin's brain could come up with far too many answers to that question.

“Right,” he said. “Okay. Could you, um, tell Tony that I called when he wakes up? Tell him I'm in Moscow and our flight tomorrow isn't until midday, so if he wants to call me before then, he can. Otherwise I'll see him tomorrow night.”

“I will do, Captain Crieff,” said JARVIS, and ended the connection.

Martin sighed and set the phone down. So much for spending the evening talking to his boyfriend. Still, after four very long weeks in which they'd completely failed to work out a way to see each other around their packed schedules, he was finally going to see Tony tomorrow night. Well, tomorrow night New York time, which was more like very early the morning after in Moscow time, but Martin had long ago decided that the best way to deal with constantly changing time zones was to ignore them as much as possible.

They'd spent weeks flying millionaires from all over the world to various seaside resorts so that Mr Alyakin could show them his latest range of yachts and tempt them into making an impulse purchase, but the Russian oil oligarchs that they'd just flown home from Crete were the last lot. Their next job was a Stark Industries one, flying to Berlin to pick up some sort of prototype and then flying it over to New York, where they would take a rest day. Martin was going to get to spend over forty-eight blissful hours in Tony's presence. Well, unless there was a super-powered disaster of some kind, but what were the chances of that?

Given that Martin and his notorious bad luck were involved, probably pretty high.

No, no, he wasn't meant to be thinking like that any more. He'd conquered his bad luck, after all. He was a fully-salaried airline captain, his boyfriend was sexy, intelligent and had named a plane after him, and there were really no grounds for Martin to claim he had bad luck these days. Not even if Douglas did still win the brie off him nine times out of ten. 

He pulled out his book. If he were lucky, Tony would wake up before he went to bed, otherwise they'd talk tomorrow and Tony would tell him all about whatever it was that he'd spent all night doing, which would turn out to be nothing. Martin had to keep a firm grip on his confidence with this thing with Tony, or he'd drive himself mad.

****

He fell asleep before Tony called and woke up to a missed call and a voicemail from him.

_“Do you ever feel like we have the absolute worst timing? Call me when you wake up although, I should warn you, unless you're awake at some kind of crazy early time, I'll be at some dull as shit awards ceremony and not able to indulge in the delights of phone sex. Well, not unless I nip to the bathroom and lock myself in a cubicle, that could work. I'm sure no one would notice.”_

Martin couldn't keep in a smile and pressed the dial button.

Tony picked up within three rings. “Spitfire!”

“I am absolutely not ever having phone sex with you when either of us are anywhere that might be termed 'in public',” Martin greeted him. It was all about the carefully-stated ground rules with Tony.

Tony huffed out a laugh. “Ahah,” he said, dragging the vowel out, “but that's what you used to say about any kind of phone sex at all. And now look at you! Practically an old hand. Heh, _hand_. Coz, see, during phone sex your hand is standing in for me.”

“Yes, I got it,” said Martin, shifting upwards so he could lean back against the headboard. He could hear music and voices in the background, and there was an all-too-familiar slur to Tony's voice. “Are you still at the awards thing?”

“It's an after party,” said Tony. “I'm not sure whose, though. Not Hammer's or Trump's, I have way more self-respect than that.”

“They were business awards?” asked Martin. “Did you win anything?”

“Oh yeah, the company won a bunch of stuff,” said Tony easily. “We always do. I made Pepper do the hand-shaking and speech-making, though. You know how I feel about people handing me things.”

“And how drunk are you?” asked Martin.

Tony snorted. “I told you, Spitfire, I don't get drunk. I'm way too good at drinking for 'drunk'.”

Martin bit his tongue and then wondered why. Maybe it hadn't been his place to comment on Tony's drinking when they first started seeing each other, but it had been over a year now. Surely he and Tony were close enough for him to say something now?

“That's not really a good thing,” he said. “Maybe you should try cutting back?”

Tony snorted. “Yeah, I don't think so. Not when awards ceremonies are this dull. I had to make small talk with Mark Zuckerberg. Fucking _Zuckerberg_ , man. I came this close to choking the brat to death - it would have been for the good of humanity, I swear. Besides, I've done some of my best work while wasted. You should have seen the upgrades to Steve's armour I came up with last night, well, early this morning, when I was a bit buzzed. They're incredible, seriously, I'm totally impressed with myself.”

That explained why Tony had been asleep at two in the afternoon, and why JARVIS had hesitated to tell Martin why. Tony had got drunk and passed out, probably fully clothed on the sofa in the workshop. Again.

“Tony-” started Martin, but was interrupted.

“Hang on, Spitfire,” said Tony, and the phone went muffled. Martin sighed and reflected that this probably wasn't the best time anyway.

“Pepper's saying I have to go and schmooze,” said Tony when he came back. “Sorry. I swear, I can't wait for this time tomorrow night, when we can just batten down the hatches and tell everyone else to go fuck themselves for a bit.”

“Yeah, it's going to be good,” agreed Martin. “We're due to land at five your time, so I'll be with you by six.”

“In time for dinner,” said Tony. “Awesome. I'll get JARVIS to book us a table somewhere. Nowhere posh, don't panic. Hey, maybe we can count it as our anniversary dinner, seeing as we didn't end up getting one. It'll only be, like, a month and a half late.”

“Sounds great,” said Martin. And maybe he'd get a chance to drop some sort of comment to Tony about his drinking. If he could work out the best way to do that before then.

“Awesome,” said Tony. “See you then, Spitfire.”

“Bye,” said Martin, and hung up. He wondered if Douglas would have any ideas about how to tackle the thorny issue of someone drinking too much, or if it was some sort of social faux pas to ask a recovering alcoholic about that.

There was a knock on his door. “Skip? You up?” called Arthur's voice. “We're going to breakfast in about ten minutes.”

“I'll meet you down there,” called Martin, forcing himself to get out of bed. “Won't be long.”

****

Their departure time was at noon, which meant they had to spend a couple of hours hanging around the hotel before heading over to the airport. Usually Martin wouldn't mind a slower start to the day but today he was just very aware how many hours there were between morning in Moscow and evening in New York. And they had to stop in Berlin on the way, which was a pain. The Germans might have had a reputation for efficiency, but it wasn't reflected at Schönefeld airport.

Besides, he really, really wanted to see Tony again. It had been far too long.

When they finally turned up at Moscow Sheremetyevo airport, he was out of the taxi almost before it had stopped moving.

“Calm down, Martin,” said Carolyn. “If you look too stressed, they'll think you're plotting some sort of-”

She was cut off as a loud siren started to go off in the terminal building. “Oh no,” she said. “No. I refuse to let this happen.”

The taxi pulled away just as people started exiting the terminal. Security guards started shouting loudly at the crowd in Russian, gesturing in an unmistakable way that they need to move away from the terminal.

“Gosh!” said Arthur. “This looks exciting!”

“No, Arthur,” said Douglas. “It doesn't. It looks like an unbelievable hassle.”

The nearest guard gestured at them and shouted something, then switched to fractured English. “Must evacuate area. Move back.”

Carolyn scowled at him but turned to shepherd the others away. “Come on. If we're lucky, this will just be a drill or a mistake, and they'll let us back in soon.”

“That doesn't look much like a drill, I'm afraid,” said Douglas, gesturing at a column of smoke that was rising from a part of the airport somewhere on the other side of the terminal building.

“Oh god,” said Martin, with despair.

“I hope GERTI is okay,” said Arthur.

Carolyn scowled. “If these Russian nincompoops damage my plane, I shall rip all their heads off and play football with them.”

“You only need one ball for football, Mum,” said Arthur.

Carolyn's scowl deepened. “Dodgeball, then.”

“I remain overwhelmingly relieved that you did not pursue a career as a PE teacher,” said Douglas.

The flood of people leaving the terminal slowed to a trickle as the security guards formed a protective barrier in front of the doors. Every so often a few of them would come over and make everyone shuffle further back.

After half an hour, Carolyn lost her patience. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “We're clearly not going to be getting in the air any time soon. Come on, boys, let's find somewhere that will serve me a coffee so that I can phone the client and tell them we've been unavoidably detained by Russian incompetence.”

“No,” said Martin. “No! We can still fly, don't be ridiculous. The fire's in the terminal building - we just have to get in to the airport another way, then we can get to GERTI and take off. I'm sure there's a fence we can climb over or something, come on.”

“Martin,” said Carolyn, “as impressed as I am with your commitment to our clients, we are not breaking into an airport in order to take off against ATC's wishes.”

“It's not our clients plural he's committed to,” said Douglas. “It's just the one very special client.”

Martin deflated. “I haven't seen him in _weeks_.”

Arthur gently patted his shoulder. “Don't worry, Skip. It's just a delay. Delays are loads of fun!”

“No, Arthur, they are not,” said Douglas.

“Of course they are!” said Arthur. “Look at this one: we're going to get to go a Russian coffee shop! And we saw Russian fire engines!”

“One day, we will find the limit to your boundless enthusiasm and we will all breath a sigh of relief,” said Douglas.

Martin looked at the time and did some calculations. It would be nearly four in the morning in New York. Not a good time to phone Tony, even if he was still out partying after the awards ceremony. He texted instead.

_The airport is on fire. Maybe make those dinner reservations for quite late?_

They found a cafe and had coffee, along with a large number of other disgruntled people who had been evacuated from the airport. There seemed to be a lot of complaining going on in a variety of different languages but Martin didn't pay attention to any of it. He was too busy trying not to succumb to the sinking sense of inevitability. It really felt as if the fates had been against him and Tony seeing each other properly since- since their anniversary.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he'd been given a year's reprieve from his usual atrocious bad luck but now it was over and he needed to accept that he was back to being the butt of the universe's jokes again.

“Martin, would you please stop sighing like that?” asked Carolyn. “I'm beginning to worry you'll start a hurricane, and then we really won't get out of here.”

Martin managed a damp glare at her but did stifle the next sigh. “I thought being a pilot would make a long-distance relationship easier.”

Douglas scoffed. “God, no. Well, not unless you specifically want a relationship where you have plenty of opportunities to pretend you're single to any attractive cabin crew members you may or may not run into, but that doesn't really seem your style, Martin.”

“No,” said Martin heavily. “I want one where I get to actually spend time with the person I'm with. I don't understand why it has to be so hard.”

“Relationships of any kind aren't meant to be easy,” said Carolyn. “They all have their unique problems. Herc's job is moving to Zurich, you know.”

“Zurich?” repeated Douglas. “Ah, yes, that most Caledonian of locations.”

“They're being bought by Swiss Air,” said Carolyn. “I must say that having seen the problems you and Tony have first-hand has convinced me that it would not be worth continuing our, ah, association if he did move.”

Arthur stared at her with wide, horrified eyes. “Oh no! You're splitting up with Herc? That's terrible!”

Carolyn twitched. “We may not. He has offered to give up his job and stay in England. If. Well, if I want him to.”

“Ah,” said Douglas. “But that would involve you making a decision and, dare I say it? A commitment.”

Carolyn glared at him. “No one asked for your input, Douglas. I was merely pointing out to Martin that all romantic entanglements are prey to such problems.”

Martin appreciated the thought, but it didn't really make him feel any better.

Nothing happened for ages. Arthur got bored and wandered off into the near-by shopping centre but Martin didn't want to do anything more than just sit where he was and let the frustration and misery settle into his bones.

When Arthur came back, he was practically bouncing.

“Skip! Skip, I got you a present to cheer you up!”

“Ten pounds says it's a Toblerone,” said Douglas.

“Don't be silly, Douglas,” said Arthur. “You only buy Toblerones in airports. No, it's even better than that.”

“Better than a Toblerone?” asked Martin, sceptically.

Arthur hesitated. “Well, okay, maybe the same as a Toblerone, because Toblerones are brilliant, but so are these. Look! I saw them and thought instantly of you.”

He passed Martin a bag. Martin opened it and stared. “Oh god, Arthur.”

“Aren't they brilliant?!” said Arthur, apparently entirely missing Martin's tone of voice.

“Show the class then, Martin,” said Douglas.

There was no avoiding the mockery that was going to arise from this. He might as well just give in and get it over with as quickly as possible. Martin pulled the bright red Iron Man boxer shorts out of the bag and held them up.

Douglas collapsed into laughter.

“See?” said Arthur. “Brilliant!”

Carolyn came back from outside, where she'd been making one of her frequent calls to the airport's information line for an update and Martin quickly tucked the boxers away again.

There was a grave look on her face. “They've officially shut the airport until tomorrow,” she said.

Douglas let out a heartfelt groan.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I've got us a hotel for the night, so we may as well go there rather than hang around here any longer.”

Martin rubbed a hand over his face, disappointment souring his stomach.

“And,” continued Carolyn, and there was an unusual air of hesitance to her voice that made Martin glance up to find her looking at him with an expression that might almost have been sympathetic, “I've spoken to Stark Industries about the delay. They can't wait an additional twenty-four hours for the prototype. If that's all it ends up being, god only knows how long it will actually take for these idiots to sort out their airport. Anyway, they're arranging for it to go with another airline.”

“So, that means we don't need to stop at Berlin on the way to New York?” said Arthur. “That's a good thing, isn't it?”

“No,” said Martin, misery roughening his voice. “It means we don't need to go to New York at all. Right?”

Carolyn pursed her lips and nodded. “I'm sorry, Martin. They've cancelled the booking, so we'll just be going back to Fitton whenever they finally let us take off.”

Martin leaned forward and rested his forehead on the café table.

****

They found a taxi to take them to the hotel where Carolyn had managed to get them two rooms despite the sudden demand caused by a airport full of people who wouldn't be flying. Once in the room he'd be sharing with Douglas, Martin dumped his bag on the floor and collapsed on a bed. He pulled his phone out but there had been no reply from Tony to his text yet. He was probably still asleep.

He thought about texting to update him but instead he just dropped the phone beside him and sighed.

“I can tell you're going to be a barrel of laughs tonight,” said Douglas.

Martin glared at him. “In the last two months, I've probably spent less than eight hours with him in which we were both awake. And now I'm not likely to see him until- until-” His mind went blank. He'd been so focused on this trip that he hadn't bothered to think about the next. He waved a vague hand and finished, “-ages.”

“You have had a run of bad luck recently,” agreed Douglas.

Martin snorted. “You mean, a run of my usual luck.”

“Ah, it's to be wallowing in self-pity, is it?” said Douglas. “Perhaps I'll take my book and sit in the lobby for a bit.”

Martin didn't bother responding. Once Douglas was gone, he screwed his eyes tight shut and tried hard not to cry. God, why did everything always have to go wrong? Why couldn't he just have this one thing without it turning to shit in his hands?

It was nearly six when Tony called him, which meant it was ten in the morning in New York and he'd probably just woken up.

Martin took a moment or two before he could bring himself to answer it. He didn't want to have this conversation. He was meant to already be heading out over the Atlantic on his way to actually see Tony in person by now, not trapped in a shabby Russian hotel with nothing but a trip back to Fitton to look forward to.

“Hi.”

“Spitfire,” said Tony, and Martin could tell from the tone of his voice that he knew. “How's Moscow?”

“Like a prison,” said Martin, with more vehemence than he'd expected.

“Yeah,” said Tony. “I bet. We don't seem to be having much luck at the moment.”

“None at all,” said Martin.

There was a short, bitter silence. Martin found tears welling up in his eyes again as he contrasted it with the atmosphere there would have been between them if he'd actually landed in New York tonight.

Enough. He took a deep breath. “How was the party?”

Tony made a groaning noise. “Oh god, don't ask me about that. Seriously, Spitfire, you don't want to know. There was drinking and schmoozing, and all that crap, and then I woke up this morning to find the Russians can't keep their damn airport open long enough to let my boyfriend fly out.”

“I don't think we can blame them for having a fire,” said Martin, weakly, but the truth was he wasn't really in the mood to defend the Russians.

“I'll blame whoever I like,” said Tony. “I'm a cranky, spoilt billionaire. It's my prerogative.”

Martin found a smile. “I'm pretty sure Steve would frown at you for that.”

Tony let out a gusty sigh. “Ah, the glare of Captain America. The worst punishment an Avenger can face. Okay then, fine, I won't take out my wrath on the good people of Mother Russia.”

There was a knock on Martin's door. “Skip?”

“Come in,” he called.

Arthur came in. “Mum said to tell you we're going to dinner. Do you want to come?”

Not really. Martin wanted to stay here, chatting to Tony, until it was dark enough that he could close his eyes and pretend that they were in the same room as each other and not separated by four and a half thousand miles.

“It's cool, Spitfire, I should probably be heading off to my meeting anyway,” said Tony.

“Okay,” said Martin, nodding at Arthur. “I just hope I can find something on the menu that doesn't involve bloody dill.”

“Mum said she was going to threaten the waiter with castration to make sure she didn't get any,” said Arthur. “I expect if you asked her, she'd threaten him for you as well.”

“And I thought Thor showed his friendship in weird ways,” said Tony. “He's never offered to castrate a waiter for me, though.”

“Clearly it's not true friendship,” said Martin. “How long's your meeting? Should I call you after dinner?”

Tony let out a long sigh. “Sadly, it's all back-to-back meetings today. I was meant to be getting them all out the way so I could spend tomorrow in bed with my boyfriend. I don't think I'll be done until after you've gone to sleep.”

“Oh,” said Martin. “Right, well. Okay then. I suppose I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I'll make sure we get a good few hours when we're both awake so that we can bitch about the Russian fire service and, uh, maybe fit in some phone sex? As we won't be getting any other kind?”

Martin glanced at Arthur, who was still waiting for him. “Uh, yeah. I think we could probably do that. Once I'm back in my flat.”

“Awesome,” said Tony. “Okay, Spitfire, good night, then.”

“Good morning,” said Martin, and hung up.

Arthur gave him a commiserating look. “Would it help if I gave you my emergency Toblerone?”

Martin shook his head and forced himself to get up. “No, thank you, Arthur. It's fine.”

“Right, except it's really not, is it?” said Arthur.

“No,” agreed Martin, “but there's nothing to be done about it now. I may as well focus on things I can actually do something about, like trying to get a dinner that doesn't involve dill.”

“Righto,” said Arthur, and they headed off.

****

Dinner did end up involving dill. Martin wasn't sure why he'd thought he'd be able to avoid it. Afterwards, the others went back up to the rooms and Martin found himself standing in the lobby, trying to bring himself to go up and attempt to be interested in his book.

In the end, he couldn't face it. Instead, he went into the bar and found himself a seat. He got himself a whisky and then regretted it when the first sip tasted like Tony did late at night, after they'd spent a lazy evening in front of the telly together.

Tony always made himself a drink when they first settled down. Martin never said anything, although Tony must be aware of how he felt about it. Instead, Martin set himself the task of influencing Tony to get up for a refill as few times as possible without actually mentioning it. Over the months, he'd managed to get it down to only one or two refills and on two glorious occasions, Tony had stopped after the first drink and not bothered getting another at all.

Martin's stool at the bar was in front of a small telly and he watched the flashing pictures and Cyrillic writing going past as he sipped at his drink. It looked like they were talking about something to do with football. He wondered if he should recognise any of the players or clubs that were being shown but he'd never thought sport was particularly interesting.

“Are you a real pilot?” asked an American voice next to him, and Martin turned to see a woman sat a few stools down eyeing his epaulettes.

He scowled. “Yes, I am a real, live pilot. I'm not playing dress up.”

She held her hands up defensively. “Whoa, sorry. I just didn't expect to see a pilot slumming it in this sort of hotel.”

Martin glanced around. “It's not that bad,” he said. She raised her eyebrows sceptically and he gave in. “Well, okay, it's not great, but even pilots can't be choosy about where they stay when the airport's shut.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “You were meant to be flying out today, then?”

“Yeah,” he said, unable to keep in a sigh. “You?”

She nodded. “So much for getting back in time for work tomorrow. I suppose it doesn't affect you so much, though. Where were you flying, home? You're from England, right?”

She stood up and moved down to the stool next to Martin while she was talking and he suddenly had the shocking thought that she was chatting him up.

Astonishment blanked his mind for a moment. No one ever chatted him up. He just wasn't the type of man who attracted women in bars, not even when he was in uniform.

“Uh...” he said, desperately trying to pull his thoughts together. Where the hell had they been going? “New York!” he remembered. “We were going to New York!”

“You sound excited about that,” she said, amused. She leant forward and Martin suddenly realised she had quite a lot of cleavage on display. Panic flooded his mind.

“I am,” he managed, forcing his eyes up to her face with a superhuman effort. “Was, even, I was. I'm not now, because we're not going.”

She didn't appear to have noticed his stuttering inarticulacy. “What's so exciting about New York?” she purred.

It came back to Martin like a flash. “Tony,” he said, and it was as if just saying his name flooded him with confidence. He _had_ been chatted up before, he'd been chatted up by Tony Stark. No random woman would ever stand up to that. “Uh, that is – my boyfriend. My boyfriend lives in New York.”

“Oh,” she said, leaning back. “Well, I guess that's definitely something to be excited about. Long distance relationship, huh?”

“Yes,” said Martin, and then, because she was just a stranger in a bar and didn't have the first clue about him, or about Tony, he let himself be more truthful than he usually was. “It's awful. I'm so sick of being in the wrong country all the time.”

She nodded, looking as if she knew exactly what he meant. “He's in America and you're in Britain, right? I know what that's like. It's not just the distance, it's the time zones.”

“God, yes,” said Martin. “Our lives seem completely out of sync, it's infuriating.”

And just like that, the conversation morphed from a terrifying flirtation to two strangers bonding over the worst things about dating people who lived in another country, and then just the worst things about dating over all. The woman, who turned out to be called Jenny, bought Martin another drink, and then he returned the favour.

“You know what I always find?” she said, swirling the whisky around her glass. The television over her head had now gone on to showing footage of some teenage boy band. “It just always seems that your career is never allowed to be as important as theirs is. Like, there's no possible way that what you do could mean as much to you as what they do means to them. Especially if you earn less.”

Martin thought about that, then shook his head. “No, Tony's not like that. He knows how I feel about flying, he's never been less than supportive.” Even when Tony had been taking unspeakable liberties with MJN's pay structure, he'd never once suggested that Martin's job was unimportant. In fact, the fact that he went to such lengths to make sure Martin could keep doing it without having to worry about his finances only showed that he knew exactly how important it was.

Jenny sighed. “You're lucky, then.”

“Yeah,” agreed Martin. “I am. I mean, the distance and the time zones and all the rest of it is an enormous pain, but he's great.”

The TV picture changed and Martin suddenly realised it was showing Tony's face. He blinked, his attention torn away from whatever Jenny had been saying.

Tony was on a red carpet, dressed to the nines and shooting finger guns at the cameras as flashes went off all around him.

_That's my boyfriend_ , thought Martin, and an embarrassingly warm feeling flooded through him.

The pictures changed, showing Donald Trump, Justin Hammer and Tim Cook and Martin realised it was footage from the business awards that Tony had gone to last night. God, it looked just as dull as Tony had said it was. No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk about it.

And then more footage of Tony came on, showing that maybe Tony had wanted to avoid it for very different reasons.

This bit had clearly been taken at the end of the evening, as Tony and the others jetted off to after-parties. Tony came out with a swagger to his step and a sloppiness to his grin that only someone who knew him well would recognise as the product of an awful lot of alcohol. He was with a handful of people Martin didn't recognise, most of them women, and as he flashed his grin at the cameras, he put his arms around the two nearest, squeezing around their waists to draw them in closer. Neither of them looked at all put out, moving closer until they were basically cuddled against him. They held the pose for a moment as cameras flashed, then the party headed on towards a limo.

It felt like Martin's guts had turned to ice. _It means nothing,_ he reminded himself. It was just what Tony always did when faced with a red carpet and paparazzi. He wasn't cheating on Martin. He wouldn't – he'd just tell Martin if he wanted to see other people. He was a superhero; superheroes didn't break trusts.

Except, he'd been a playboy long before he'd been a superhero. Maybe old habits were hard to break, especially when he was drinking. Which was a completely different source of worry. How much exactly had Tony been drinking? He'd told Martin he wasn't drunk on the phone, but that had clearly been rubbish.

A hand touched his wrist and he jumped. “You okay?” asked Jenny.

“Yes,” said Martin. “Yes, sorry. I'm fine.”

“Right,” she said, sounding sceptical. “Because claiming that your boyfriend is great, then zoning out with a thousand-yard stare is totally fine.”

Martin shrugged one shoulder. “Well, it's...” He drifted off. Should he really be saying this?

“Come on,” she said. “Dish. I'm a complete stranger, I'm the perfect person to vent to.”

That was true. “Well, okay, it's just- Sometimes he, um, parties a bit too much when I'm not there. I suppose that's the worst thing about long-distance. You're only ever there as a temporary thing, so you never get the full picture of their life and you can't- well. You can't tell when things are getting a bit over-the-top. You know?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I do. Like, you're never really truly part of their life, because you're just not physically present for it.”

“Yes, that's it,” said Martin. He took a drink and realised he'd finished his third glass. Christ, he had to fly tomorrow. He glanced at the time and felt his eyebrows go up. “Oh, it's late. I need to get to bed.”

“Okay,” she said. “It was good talking to you. Well, cathartic, I suppose.”

Martin smiled at her. “Yeah, thanks,” he said. “It's good to be able to just let it all out once in a while.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Good night.”

“Night,” he said, and went to bed.

****

****

Tony woke up with a hangover and a sinking sense of disappointment. He squinted his eyes open.

“Good morning, sir,” said JARVIS. “It's nine thirty-six AM on Wednesday the sixth of August.”

Oh yeah, the day Martin was meant to be arriving, but now wasn't. That explained both the disappointment and the hangover.

“Where's Martin?” he asked, because he might as well start the day by torturing himself.

“Captain Crieff is currently at Moscow Sheremetyevo airport, but he is due to take off in three minutes,” said JARVIS.

No point in calling him then. Tony sat up, rubbing at his face. “Right,” he said. “And do I even want to know how long it'll be before I'm due to see him now?”

“MJN Air are next scheduled to fly to New York on the twenty-ninth of this month," said JARVIS.

“Three weeks,” said Tony. “Great.” It felt like an eternity. He picked up the altimeter from beside the bed and waited a couple of minutes to watch the needle gently tick upwards from about five hundred feet to thirty thousand.

“Sir,” JARVIS gently interrupted as Tony stared at it. “Miss Potts wanted you to call her as soon as you were awake.”

“Let me guess, now I don't need the day off to spend with my boyfriend, she wants me to do all kinds of dull business shit.”

“I couldn't say, sir,” said JARVIS, just slightly too smoothly.

“Bullshit,” said Tony. “You know exactly what it's about. Ah, screw it, call her now. I may as well get it done with.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pepper picked up within three rings. “Tony.”

“Yeah, morning,” said Tony, pulling himself out of bed and heading for the bathroom. “It's not a good one, though. You're sure we couldn't have come up with an excuse to fly MJN out here anyway?”

He looked in the mirror and then regretted it. He looked tired and old.

Pepper ignored him. “Tony, there's- we've got a bit of a media situation.”

“Oh God,” said Tony. “The worst kind of situation. Couldn't we have a giant killer robots situation instead?”

“It's Martin,” said Pepper, and Tony froze.

“I thought we made it clear that they were to stay the fuck away from him?” he said. “I swear, screw the First Amendment, I'm going to kill them all. JARVIS, get the suit ready.”

“Tony, it's not good,” said Pepper. “It looks as if he spoke to a journalist. There's a lot of direct quotes.”

It felt as if a ten ton weight had just dropped on Tony. “Quotes?” he repeated. “Have you asked him about it?”

“Not yet,” said Pepper. “I wasn't sure if you'd want me to talk to him.”

Tony didn't know what he wanted. Well, no, he knew exactly what he wanted. He didn't want to be seeing yet another person who would happily sell him out to the papers at the drop of a hat.

No, that didn't make sense. Martin wouldn't do that. He had far too much pride to splash their relationship all over the papers.

“Tony?” asked Pepper, and Tony realised he hadn't said anything for a while. It felt a bit like his lungs were shutting down.

“Do nothing,” he forced out. “Don't- don't talk to Martin. I'll do it.”

“Tony-” started Pepper, but Tony couldn't stand to be in this conversation any longer.

“Sorry, Pep, gotta go, talk later,” he forced out. “JARVIS.”

JARVIS cut the call off. 

Tony took a deep breath. Right, okay. So, that happened. He could deal, totally. He just needed to have a shower first. A very long, scorchingly hot one.

****

Tony wasn't sure how long he was in the shower but when he came out, he felt a bit more capable of dealing with this thing. Or, at least, of pretending he was capable of dealing with this thing but, hey, fake it till you make it, right?

He grabbed a tablet and pulled up the article, which was depressingly easy to find.

 

_Is Distance Tearing Tony Stark's Relationship Apart?_

_Given Tony's history of living his life right in the spotlight, we've all been surprised by just how quiet he's kept about his romance with British pilot, Martin Crieff,_ writes Jennifer Lang _. Now, an exclusive interview with Martin himself reveals that things aren't all sunshine and roses for Iron Man._

_“I'm so sick of being in the wrong country all the time,” said the ginger fly-boy, “and even when we are together, one of us is usually jet-lagged.”_

_It's a familiar story to anyone who's been in a long-distance relationship, proving that even billionaire superheroes can't escape the problems of being miles away from the one you love._

_And it's clear it is love. Martin's eyes light up when he talks about Tony._

_“The distance and the time zones and all the rest of it is an enormous pain, but he's great.”_

_But is love enough? Even without the distance, Tony and Martin are still from different worlds. Martin worries about Tony's wild playboy lifestyle, and especially his drinking._

_“Sometimes he parties a bit too much when I'm not there,” said Martin, and went on to mention that he thought Tony's drinking was “over-the-top.”_

 

Tony stopped reading. What the hell had Martin been doing, providing a muckraker like Jennifer Lang with all these quotes? Why the hell was he talking to a gossip columnist about their relationship problems before he talked to Tony? Especially about Tony's drinking, which totally wasn't a problem. He wasn't stupid, he knew that Martin and others - notably Steve - thought he should be cutting back, but it was all fine. It was just something he did to pass the time, it was totally under control.

There were a couple of photos on the article. One of them at the Taj Mahal, last year when they'd first appeared in front of the media together, and another of them together on the street outside a restaurant they'd been to a couple of times that was an obvious paparazzi shot. In both of them, Tony was wearing his usual media grin and Martin was looking terrified, flinching back away from the camera. Tony stared at them, wondering how anyone who looked that scared when confronted with photographers could sit down and give an interview.

It had to be a mistake. They must have ambushed him somehow.

“JARVIS, let me know as soon as MJN lands,” said Tony, setting the tablet down.

“Of course, sir,” said JARVIS. “They are due to land at 11.41 am, Eastern time.”

Okay, well, that meant Tony had enough time for coffee first. Lots of coffee.

****

He took his coffee down to his workshop and lost himself in rebuilding the targeting system of the latest version of the armour. No matter what was going on in the rest of his life, he'd always been able to drown it out by working on something really fucking complex.

When JARVIS interrupted AC/DC to say that MJN had landed in Fitton, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

“Okay, right,” said Tony. “Guess I should call him then.”

For the first time since he'd met him, he didn't get a rush of excitement at the idea of talking to Martin. Instead, he just felt a bit sick at the prospect.

“Probably best to wait till he's at his flat rather than talking to him when he's at the airport, or driving,” he said. “JARVIS, let me know when he's home.”

“Of course, sir,” said JARVIS, and the music faded back up.

Tony wasn't able to lose himself in his work in quite the same way, though. What was he meant to say to Martin? Either Martin had deliberately smeared their relationship all over the papers, or he'd been taken for a ride by a reporter and was going to hate himself when he found out.

Tony didn't understand how he could have let himself be taken in like that, though. It wasn't as if Tony hadn't told him that reporters would be trying to get a story from him. He really should have been on his guard.

“Captain Crieff has arrived at the coordinates of his apartment,” JARVIS reported.

Tony took a deep breath. “Okay. Call him.”

The phone rang a handful of times before Martin picked up. “Tony!” he said. “Hello. How're you?”

Tony ignored the question. “Hey, you been online today? Seen any media?”

“Uh,” said Martin. “No, I've been flying. What's happened?”

Tony gritted his teeth. “That's a good question. Tell me, have you been speaking to anyone about us? About how much long distance relationships suck, and how I drink too much?”

There was a telling pause. “Oh,” said Martin. “Oh, god. What- She was just a woman in a bar. I didn't even tell her my name, let alone yours.”

Tony couldn't keep in an irritated sigh. “You don't need to tell her your name, Martin. Every reporter out there will know your face. She probably couldn't believe her luck when she recognised you.”

There was a long silence. “Is it very bad?” asked Martin, eventually. “I don't- I can't remember everything I said.”

“She clearly did,” said Tony, with bitterness. She'd probably had something recording every word.

“Oh,” said Martin, and he sounded gut-wrenchingly miserable. Suddenly, Tony couldn't stand to be talking to him any more. This whole thing was making him feel like throwing up, or passing out, or both.

“I've got to go. Got a meeting,” he lied. “Just- please. Take more care with who you're talking to.”

“Yes, of course,” said Martin. “Tony, I'm so sorry. I promise it wasn't on purpose.”

“Course it wasn't,” said Tony. “Talk later.”

He hung up without waiting for Martin to say anything else, and looked back down at the circuitry he was working on. He wasn't really in the mood for it any more.

“Fuck it, it's evening somewhere,” he muttered, and went to find a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

When he'd installed it, Tony had thought it was a great idea to have an alarm system rigged throughout the penthouse that played Steve yelling, “Avengers, Assemble!” at a ridiculously loud volume whenever there was a call out.

Being woken up by it when he was sleeping on the sofa in his workshop with a hangover made him seriously rethink that. Jesus Christ, his head hurt.

“What's the situation, JARVIS?” he asked, stumbling to his feet. “And, most importantly, do I have time for a shower first?”

“It would seem not, sir,” said JARVIS. “Baltimore is under attack.”

Tony groaned. “Oh, come on, Baltimore? Who the hell would bother with Baltimore?”

“According to reports, at least one giant squid and a large number of car-sized crabs,” said JARVIS. “The squid has blockaded the port and the crabs are coming ashore at the docks and harassing pedestrians. Captain Rogers has asked the Avengers to assemble on the roof, where a SHIELD jet will pick them up.”

Tony let out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, well, tell him I'll make my own way there. Get the suit ready, I'm going to at least change clothes first.”

He took the time to splash water on his face and take a couple of Advil as well, but it didn't do much to help. He put on the suit, wincing as the bright lights of the user interface stabbed directly at his brain, and took off.

He overtook the jet before they even got to Philadelphia, which was pitiful, really. What kind of superhero troop couldn't get further than Philly in the time it took an exhausted man with a hangover to change and try to sober up? The sooner the Quinjet was in service, the better.

He'd been planning to take Martin to see the progress on the Quinjet yesterday. It was being built at the Stark Industries aviation division's main factory, which Martin would have got a kick out of. They could have seen the Starkjet assembly line as well.

 _He could have blabbed all about that to the nearest journalist as well,_ thought Tony, as he descended towards the Patapsco River, where he could see tentacles wreaking havoc amongst the boats in the marina.

Okay, so, maybe he was still a bit bitter. He had a killer hangover and a giant squid was in the process of throwing a small trawler at him so he felt pretty entitled, actually. He ducked under the trawler, wincing as it landed on a warehouse behind him, and fired his repulsors at the squid. Time to make sushi.

Oh man, he shouldn't think about sushi when he was this hungover.

****

By the time the SHIELD jet landed, Tony had managed to drive the squid back away from the marina into the main channel and was keeping it occupied where it couldn't cause any more damage. Thor had arrived not long after him and started smashing through the ranks of the crabs that had come ashore, cracking shells with his hammer and letting out loud war cries.

“Do you need any help, Iron Man?” asked Cap.

“Nah, I'm good,” said Tony, blasting at the tentacle reaching out for him. “You guys get on with making crab sticks.”

“Oh man, don't talk about seafood,” said Clint. “I'm starving. I haven't had breakfast today.”

There was a bellow as Bruce levelled up to the big guy, and then a series of loud, crunchy sounds.

“I don't think that's going to be a problem,” said Natasha. “Looks like there's going to be chowder for everyone.”

The squid batted another tentacle at Tony and he darted to avoid it, then had to shoot up higher to avoid a third. “Hey, Cap, what am I doing with this guy?” he asked. “I can kill it, but it's going to cause a mess, not to mention pissing PETA off.”

“Do we know why they've attacked yet?” asked Natasha.

“Not yet,” said Tony. “JARVIS ran a few scans, but there's nothing to show why they might have gone all Rambo.”

There was a sickeningly familiar bout of maniacal laughter. “Fools! It is I! Prince Namor, Ruler Of Atlantis, Lord of The Sea!”

“Oh god,” said Tony. “It's Ariel.”

“Cower before the might of the sea, Land-Dwellers!” continued Namor, raising out of the sea to hover above the squid, holding his trident high. “You shall poison my realms no more!”

“Look, can we maybe talk about this?” said Tony.

“Imperius Rex!” shouted Namor, and dove at Tony, trident held out.

Tony darted back out of the way, looping around another flailing tentacle. “Uh, guys, maybe I do need some backup over here after all.”

“Thor, go and help him,” ordered Steve.

“With great haste!” said Thor.

“Sir, Captain Crieff is calling,” said JARVIS.

Tony paused to shoot a missile that Namor easily ducked, which gave the squid a chance to hit him with a tentacle, batting him to one side like a toy.

Every other time Martin had called during a fight, Tony had immediately picked up. Even if his mind was only ten percent on chatting to Martin, it was still worth hearing his voice. Today, though, the thought of talking to him made Tony feel exhausted.

“Tell him I'm busy,” he said, aiming a punch at Namor that was easily blocked.

“Very good, sir,” said JARVIS.

“Prince Namor!” announced Thor as he arrived. “Let us battle as befits royalty!”

Namor glared at him and abandoned Tony to fly at Thor instead. There was a crash as they engaged and Tony ducked away to deal with the squid. He gave up on humanitarianism and blasted a small missile right at the nearest eye. There was an explosion, a bellow of rage and pain, and the flailing of the tentacles became a lot less coordinated. Blue blood spilled out into the sea, spreading in a cloud as the squid submerged to escape.

“Nooo!” shrieked Namor. “Why must you land-dwellers destroy all the beauties of my ocean?!”

“Well, that was because it was trying to kill me,” said Tony.

“Sir,” said JARVIS. “Captain Crieff has left a voicemail message for you.”

“Save it for later,” said Tony.

“You would do well to take your creatures and depart this place,” said Thor to Namor.

Namor glared at him. “You have not heard the last of me!” he announced, and darted back under the waves.

“Oh, thank god, these damn things are retreating,” said Clint over the comms.

Tony and Thor went back to join the others and between them, the Avengers managed to drive all the crabs back into the sea.

“I do love a nice day out by the sea,” said Clint once they were done.

“I think I'd prefer to be on a beach,” said Natasha.

Tony flipped open his face plate so that he could waggle his eyebrows at her. “In a tiny bikini, yeah?”

She sent him a look that would have made him fear for his testicles if he weren't wearing several inches of armour over them. Actually, no, he was still pretty scared for them.

The local police advanced on them and they got caught up in helping clear up all the shattered crab corpses that littered the area. It wasn't until much later, after they finally managed to make their escape, that Tony found the time to listen to Martin's message.

 _“Hey, Tony,”_ he said, sounding as hesitant as he had been when he'd first started calling Tony himself rather than just waiting for Tony to call him. _“JARVIS said you were busy but wouldn't say with what, which is fine, totally fine, obviously I don't need to know every detail of your life, that would be creepy. Uh, anyway, I was just calling to, um, chat. I'm free all evening, so call me back later. Um, if you're free, obviously. Yes.”_

There was a long pause, then a huffed sigh. _“I really am sorry, Tony,”_ he said in a quiet voice, and hung up.

Tony had been flying the direct way back, but he took a diversion once the message was over, flying up high enough to be surrounded by clouds.

It was like being wrapped in an enormous white blanket, and strangely soothing. He found himself slowing down a bit and doing a series of lazy rolls. 

_Martin would like this,_ he thought, and then made a face at himself. It seemed he couldn't keep Martin out of his mind for longer than ten minutes, even when he was putting off calling him.

It wasn't that he was angry with Martin himself, not really. Not now he'd had time to calm down and think rationally. He knew what reporters were like and how they could blindside people, even people who had experience with their nasty tricks. Martin was still hopelessly naïve in so many ways. If a friendly stranger hadn't seemed to know who he was, he wouldn't have once stopped to consider just how many publications had featured photos of him and Tony together since they'd started dating.

Tony ducked out the bottom of the cloud for a moment before heading back into it and caught a glimpse of the Atlantic, spread out wide and bluey-green all the way to the horizon. It would be so easy to just head out across it until he reached Fitton, where he could sit Martin down and talk to him properly, and also finally get to hold him in his arms and maybe lick some of his freckles. Not all of them, just the most important ones.

Except there would be an Avengers briefing when they got back and he should probably try and work out what had got Namor's shiny trunks in a twist. He'd said something about his realms being poisoned, hadn't he? They should probably look into Baltimore's water pollution profile before he came back with an even bigger range of angry giant sea animals. Not to mention that Tony was late for a meeting with Pepper about the European division that he'd already put off three times, and the final design specs for the Starkphone X needed to be finished by tomorrow, and Clint had probably used up way too many of his explosive-tipped arrows on those crabs and would need replacements, and the contractors were coming to the Tower tomorrow to start work on the hangar for the Quinjet, and-

Tony sighed. Why hadn't he decided to be one of the idle rich when he was growing up and let someone else deal with the company?

Well, okay, that would have been a terrible plan, because it would have been Obie dealing with it, but still. He'd have been able to zip off to spend the next twelve hours in bed with Martin without any guilt, it might have been worth it.

The cloud dissolved into a handful of thin streamers of vapour, ending Tony's temporary exclusion from the world. New York loomed up ahead and he reluctantly sped up. The sooner he got there, the sooner he'd be done with the briefing, and with Pepper, and then he could call Martin back.

By then, he might even have worked out what he was going to say to him, not to mention conquered the solid lump in his stomach that made him feel nauseous every time he thought about the millions of strangers who had read Martin's thoughts on their relationship.

****

The briefing was mercifully brief; even Coulson couldn't find much to say about a bunch of smashed crabs and one maimed giant squid. Tony took his chance and showered the moment it was done, washing away both the morning's hangover and the residue from the fight. He came out of the bathroom feeling almost - _almost_ \- human again.

“Sir, Miss Potts has left a message for you,” said JARVIS as Tony pulled on some clothes. “She has gone into another meeting, but she's informed me that she has rescheduled the one you had with her for afterwards. She is expecting you in her office at four pm.”

“I bet that's not how she phrased it,” said Tony.

“Not quite, no,” said JARVIS.

Four pm. That meant he had an hour and a half to kill. He could go back down to the workshop, or- He drew in a breath, steeling himself. “JARVIS, what time is it in England?”

“10.28 pm,” said JARVIS.

“Right,” said Tony. “Okay.” Martin would almost certainly still be awake. He ran a hand through his hair before going out to his sitting room to sink onto the sofa. “Call Spitfire for me, would you?”

“Of course, Sir,” said JARVIS.

Martin answered surprisingly quickly. “Tony?”

“Hey,” said Tony. “Sorry about earlier; I was fighting a giant squid.”

“That's oka-,” started Martin, then paused. “A _giant squid_?!”

“Yup,” said Tony. “The life of a superhero is never dull, you know. Well, okay, that's not true, coz then we spent an hour debating the ethics behind killing giant marauding sea creatures if they're being manipulated into the marauding and are not just natural marauders, and that was pretty dull. Are you in your sitting room?”

“Uh, yes,” said Martin. “Oh, hang on, I'll put the camera on, let me-”

There was a pause while Martin tried to get everything connected. “JARVIS, put the screen on, will you?” he asked. “And send Martin a feed of me.”

The big flat-screen TV he had on the wall opposite the sofa flickered on. At first, it showed nothing but a blank screen but then, coinciding with some worried muttering from Martin, it burst into life to show an extreme close-up of Martin's sofa cushion.

A moment later it shifted to show the ceiling then, finally, Tony got a view of Martin himself, adjusting the camera with a frown before collapsing back onto his own sofa.

“Hi,” he said, smiling just above the camera, where Tony's image would be displayed via his projector. It had taken less than a week for him to go out and buy himself a camera to match the projector Tony had got him for their anniversary, which Tony had still felt was far too long.

Tony waved. “Hey, Spitfire. Looking good. That's a killer outfit.”

Martin looked down at himself and then blushed a dull red that confirmed he'd forgotten he was wearing one of Tony's old band t-shirts and a pair of boxers.

“Oh, uh, I was just- I was heading to bed soon.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You sleep in my Metallica t-shirt?”

Martin shrugged one shoulder. “It's comfy.”

“You look hot in it,” said Tony. “I mean, okay, obviously I'd prefer it if you were wearing nothing, but dressing in my clothes is an acceptable second.”

“I'm glad you approve,” said Martin, tugging awkwardly at the hem. The move exposed a bit more of the boxers and Tony realised that there was something familiar on them.

“JARVIS, zoom in on Martin's crotch,” he said, which was a phrase he wished he had more of a chance to say when he and Martin were video-chatting, but so far Martin had resisted the suggestion of cyber-sex. “Are those- Holy hell, Captain Crieff, you're wearing Iron Man undies.”

“Arthur bought them for me,” said Martin, weakly.

Tony laughed. “That's the best thing ever. I may not be anywhere near you, but at least tiny cartoons of me are snuggling up to your cock.”

“Oh god, I didn't need that mental image,” said Martin, wincing.

“It's an epic mental image,” said Tony, grinning at his facial expression. Barely two minutes into a conversation with Martin and he was already feeling so much better. Why did he think ducking his calls would be a good idea?

“If I dream of tiny cartoon versions of you molesting me, I'll-” started Martin, then paused. “Well, I'll probably avoid you finding out, because you'll just laugh at me.”

“Oh, come on, don't deny me my fun,” said Tony. “I want all the details of your dreams.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Martin. “I probably would tell you. I seem to tell you most things.”

“Not just me,” said Tony, and then wanted to bite his tongue.

Martin's face fell. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am very sorry. I just wasn't thinking.”

“Yeah,” said Tony, and then took a deep breath. He couldn't keep holding this against Martin, at least not in the face of his downcast expression. “I know what those vipers are like, and it's not like there hasn't been tabloid rubbish about me before.”

Martin shrugged. “It's horrible. I don't know how you haven't just gone to live in a cave to escape it all.”

“I actually found living in a cave to be worse,” said Tony. “I mean, not by much, but yeah, I'd say worse.”

Martin blanched in a way that said very clearly that he'd forgotten about Tony's unpleasant cave-related experiences when he'd said that. “Oh god,” he muttered, and pulled his knees up onto the sofa with him so he could rest his forehead on them. “I should just cut my tongue out.”

“No. No, definitely not,” said Tony. “I love your tongue. It does all kinds of awesome stuff.”

Martin snorted and looked up. “I'm pretty sure you're not talking about anything I've ever _said_.”

“I like what you say, too,” Tony assured him. “Just, you know, I kinda have a one-track mind. Especially when it comes to you.”

“Yeah, I'd noticed,” said Martin, and found a smile.

Tony relaxed and pushed all the emotional mess that had been dredged up by the article back down. Screw it, what did it matter what the papers said? It wasn't as if Martin hadn't been right. Long-distance relationships were an enormous ball-ache and sometimes you just had to whine about it to someone. Just, you know, not a reporter.

They talked until Martin was yawning every other minute and Tony was going to have to rush to get to Pepper's office in time.

“Okay, I really have to go,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Martin. His eyes flicked left, to where his Boeing clock hung on his wall, and he winced. “I should have gone to bed a while ago. We're flying to Copenhagen in the morning.”

“Make sure you drink some Akvavit for me,” said Tony.

“I'll be _flying_ ,” said Martin. “I can't drink when I'm flying.” He hesitated, then added in a quieter voice, “And besides, you seem to be drinking more than enough for yourself without me helping you.”

Irritation made Tony grind his teeth. Apparently it wasn't enough for Martin to whine to a journo about his drinking. “I'm fine,” he growled. “Seriously, does no one get that I know my limits?”

Martin looked like he was going to say something further but instead he visibly swallowed it back. “Okay,” he said instead. “Well, good night, then.”

Tony sighed. So much for the good mood that the chat had put them both in. “Night, Spitfire.”

Martin found a smile, but it was pretty weak. “Night,” he said. He reached out for the camera, and a moment later it went dark.

Tony sighed. “Okay, JARVIS, turn it off.” The screen flickered off. Tony tipped his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. It was awesome that he got to see Martin on screen now, and have a proper face-to-face with him, but somehow it only made the ache of missing him worse afterwards.

“Shall I inform Miss Potts that you will be a few minutes late?” said JARVIS.

Tony glanced at his watch. “Yeah, good plan,” he said, getting up. Maybe if he found her some coffee on the way it would shield him from some of her ire. Besides, he could really do with some coffee right now.

****

****

“I brought beer,” said the other Martin, holding it up as Martin let him into his flat.

Martin grinned. “Excellent,” he said. “I've ordered the pizza.”

“Then we're all set,” said the other Martin. “You've got the DVD, right?”

“Yup,” said Martin as the other Martin sat down on his sofa, setting the beer on the coffee table.

He and the other Martin had got into the habit of meeting up every so often in order to watch inspirational films in the hope of putting their own struggles with achieving their dreams into perspective. Tonight, they were going to watch _The Pursuit Of Happyness_ , which was hopefully going to put taking your CPL seven times look like child's play.

The other Martin made an exhausted noise as he relaxed into the sofa. “I had nothing but shitty customers all day,” he said. “And half of them were drunk. Why is it that sunny days mean it's okay to start drinking at eleven in the morning and then be vomiting out of a taxi by four?”

Martin frowned as he turned on the projector and put the DVD in. “Were they students?”

The other Martin shrugged. “God knows. They were certainly acting like they were, though.”

Martin sat down next to him. “Sometimes I wonder if I missed out by not being a student but, actually, that just sounds really unpleasant.”

“I was a student, but I wasn't that kind of student,” said the other Martin.

Martin tucked his feet up on the sofa as he reached for the remote and the other Martin's eyes narrowed on them.

“You're not worried that you're getting a bit fixated, then?”

Martin glanced at his socks and realised they were his Iron Man ones. He felt himself blush.

“Arthur bought them for me. He seems to think that I want to be given every item he comes across with a cartoon of my boyfriend on.”

The other Martin raised an amused eyebrow. “Is he right?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “It's a bit weird, isn't it?”

“If I could get socks with Ruth's face on, I would,” said Martin. “Although she'd probably complain that it was weird, yeah.”

Martin rubbed a thumb over one of the Iron Man masks that decorated his feet. “Tony thinks it's hilarious,” he said. “He keeps talking about getting stuff with Spitfires on in return.” He paused and realised that that might not make sense without an explanation. “He, uh, he calls me Spitfire.”

“I know,” said the other Martin. “He was doing it the whole time he was talking me through setting that up,” he said, gesturing at the projector. “He even explained why.” He gave Martin a highly amused grin that made it clear exactly what he'd thought of that.

Martin tried to hang on to his dignity. “I'm sure you had something weird that you wanted to be when you were a child.”

“I wanted to be an actor,” said the other Martin. “Which I still want. Okay, back then I thought I could be a cartoon mouse in a Disney film, but it's still essentially the same thing.”

“So's being a plane and being a pilot,” said Martin. “Well, it is at that age. You don't really understand that planes don't fly themselves.”

“You don't really understand that cartoons aren't real either,” said the other Martin. “Mind you, now we have a group of bona fide superheroes running about, one of which you're dating, maybe we should rethink the animated mice thing.”

“We've had superheroes running about for decades,” Martin pointed out. “Look at Captain America. And yet, animated mice are still fictional.”

The other Martin nodded. “Okay, yeah, good point.” His eyes dropped to Martin's feet again, where Martin realised, with some embarrassment, he was still stroking the cartoon of Tony. “When are you seeing him next?”

“We're due to fly to New York in a week,” said Martin, pulling his hand away. “We're only there for one night, though, then flying back the next afternoon.”

“Well, at least that's some time. And a week isn't long.”

Martin shrugged one shoulder, then took a deep breath. “I think he's going to break up with me,” he admitted.

The other Martin blinked at him. “Don't be stupid. He's completely besotted with you.”

Martin swallowed through a tightened throat. Though that might not be the word he'd have used, he could admit that Tony had been crazy about him. He just didn't seem to be any more. “He's changed,” he said. “I think he's ducking my calls, and he hasn't called me nearly as much. I think- well. Did you see that article about us a couple of weeks ago? In the gossip papers?”

“Yeah,” said the other Martin. “Ruth showed it to me. It looked like standard tabloid rubbish to me, mate.”

“It was,” agreed Martin, “but it was my fault. I was in a bar in Moscow, and this woman started chatting to me, and I thought she was just a bored stranger and said some things I shouldn't have. She was a reporter and just printed it all.”

“Oh,” said the other Martin, and made a face. “That's shitty, but surely Tony won't dump you over something like that?”

“I wouldn't have said so, but he's just been so...” Martin trailed off, then shrugged. “I'm not sure he's all that interested in me at all any more.”

There was nothing that Martin could put his finger on specifically, but Tony seemed to be a lot less available when Martin called him and when they did talk, he seemed distracted. Plus, he was definitely drinking a lot more, which couldn't be good. No one upped their alcohol intake because of how happy they were.

“Right,” said the other Martin, “well, excuse me if I wait for further evidence before believing that. I mean, the first I heard of you and him, you told me it was just a casual fling that wouldn't last, and the next thing I knew it was all over the papers that Tony Stark was madly in love with you. Not to mention that he bribed me into coming around here and setting that projector up, and didn't stop going on about you the whole time.”

Martin frowned. “He bribed you?”

“Well, sort of,” said the other Martin. “Or he tried to. Frankly, I'd have done it anyway, just for the dinner party story. 'Did I ever tell you about the time a superhero asked me to break into my mate's flat?' is a good rebuttal to 'so, how's the acting going?'”

Martin gritted his teeth. He'd just about got over the fact that Tony had thought it was a good idea to get the other Martin to invade his flat and fiddle about with his belongings, but that didn't mean he was okay with the idea of being a fun anecdote.

The other Martin noticed the look on his face and cleared his throat. “Look, sometimes relationships go through rocky patches. Sometimes I have a few days where I just don't really want to be around Ruth, but it passes. This will too.”

Martin let out a sigh and tried to believe that. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, and hit play on the DVD to end the conversation.

****

Will Smith had managed to get an internship despite turning up to the interview looking like a tramp, which had made both Martins mutter bitter things.

“Utter bullshit,” said the other Martin. “As if-”

There was a thump from outside the window, and he cut himself off. “What was-?”

There was another thump, then a familiar, electronic voice. “Spitfire! Hey, hey, Spitfire, c'mon let me in!”

“Bloody hell!” said Martin, leaping to his feet and rushing to throw open the curtains. Iron Man was hovering just outside, bobbing slightly, and he waved when he saw Martin.

“Hey! Spitfire!”

Martin threw open the window. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Can't a guy drop in on his boyfriend?” asked Tony. “Stand back, I'm coming in.”

He took hold of the window frame and started to pull himself through. Martin quickly grabbed the photo of his family from the windowsill and backed away.

“Surely the door would be better?” he asked.

“Nah, way too slow,” said Tony, coming through head first. “Besides, what's the point of a flying suit if you can't use windows as doors?”

He cut off his repulsors in time to avoid damaging Martin's flat, but that meant he ended up falling through the window with a crash that made Martin fear for the floorboards.

“Christ, Tony, are you okay?”

Tony started laughing and his face plate went up. “I'm so fine,” he said. “Look! We're in the same place at the same time!”

He was drunk. Martin ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to do.

“Oh!” said Tony, rolling over onto his stomach with another loud crash. “Non-Spitfire Martin is here too! Hey, non-Spitfire Martin!”

The other Martin gave him a wave. “Uh, hi, Tony.” He looked at Martin. “You know, I think I'm going to leave you to it. We can watch the rest later.”

“Yeah, might be best,” said Martin, looking down at Tony and wondering how he could be both so pleased to see someone and yet so upset too. Had he really got drunk and then flown across the Atlantic in the most advanced piece of aviation technology known to man? That was against at least six different CAA regulations.

Tony slapped at his chest. “C'mon, JARVIS, let me out,” he said. “Wanna give Spitfire a kiss.”

The armour whirred and retracted, leaving Tony in just a vest and a pair of jeans. He beamed up at Martin and tried to stand up. He made it up onto one foot, wobbled, put both arms out to catch himself with too much force, and ended up back on the ground.

“Whoops!” he said, and started laughing again.

“Um,” said the other Martin, edging towards the door. “I'll see you later,” he said, and escaped.

Martin sighed and looked down at Tony. “Come on, let's get you up.”

Tony beamed up at him. “So good to see you.”

Martin couldn't help echoing the smile, because it was really good to see Tony. It just would have been better if he'd been sober. He took hold of Tony's arms and together they managed to get him up and over to the sofa, where he collapsed again, dragging Martin down with him. 

“C'mere, let me just-” He tucked himself all the way around Martin and let out a relieved exhale. “Oh man, been wanting to do this for way too long.”

Martin patted his back and then ran his hand up to stroke through his hair. It felt greasy and not that pleasant, so he moved his hand back down to Tony's shoulders.

“What are you doing here, Tony?” he asked.

Tony pressed his face into Martin's neck. “Snuggling,” he said, with total contentment.

Martin patted his back again. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “But aren't you meant to be doing something else?”

“Screw it,” said Tony. “Screw everything else. I spend all my time doing other things, I want to be snuggling right now.”

Martin felt he should be trying to get to the bottom of this sudden visitation, but the truth was that he rather wanted to just be snuggling as well.

Tony fell asleep on him within five minutes and started snoring with drunken fervour, which dampened the mood a little. Martin reached out for the remote, almost fumbled it, and put on the TV. On mute with subtitles, because it was pretty clear Tony needed the rest.

****

He managed an episode and a half of _Have I Got News For You_ from three years ago before Tony groaned and shifted.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “What's going on?”

“I've no idea,” said Martin, flicking off the telly. “How're you feeling?”

“Like I drank my weight in booze then flew across the Atlantic in a metal can,” said Tony. “Oh man.”

“If you let me up, I'll get you some water,” said Martin.

Tony's grip tightened before reluctantly relaxing. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and shifted just enough for Martin to crawl out from under him.

Once he was free, Tony settle back on the sofa, shutting his eyes. “Jesus, my head is throbbing.”

“Aspirin as well then,” said Martin, and headed into the kitchen.

He had to help Tony sit up to drink the water and take the pills.

“Jesus,” muttered Tony, rubbing at his temples. “JARVIS, next time I get drunk, the furthest I'm allowed to fly is Brooklyn, yeah?”

There was silence and Tony winced. “Right, right, no JARVIS here. I knew that. I did. I'm just-”

“Drunk?” suggested Martin.

Tony glared at him, then sighed and tipped his head back against the sofa. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Okay, I'll let you have that one.”

“What happened?” asked Martin.

Tony stayed as he was, staring at the ceiling. “I was bored,” he said. “And I missed you. A week is a very long time, especially when it comes after weeks and weeks of waiting. So, I thought I'd just have a couple of drinks to pass the time and then, well, maybe I overdid it a little, and it seemed like a great idea to just say screw everything and come over here. I mean, what's the point in being a billionaire if you can't just drop everything and go hang out with your boyfriend when you want to?”

Martin sat down on the sofa next to him. “Did you tell Pepper?”

Tony winced. “She's going to kill me.”

“Yeah,” agreed Martin. He rested his hand on Tony's thigh. “It is great to see you.”

Tony tipped his head towards Martin and found a smile. “Yeah, totally worth it,” he said. “Even the bit mid-Atlantic where I had to get JARVIS to take over flying so I could pass out.”

“Christ, Tony,” said Martin, tightening his grip on his leg. “Okay, you need to go to bed. And I need to tell Pepper where you are.”

A fervent gleam came into Tony's eyes. “You'll tell her? You won't make me do it? Oh my god, you're the best boyfriend ever, seriously.” He sat up and clutched at Martin's arms. “You're the actual complete best.”

Martin smiled at him. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Now, come on, let's get you in bed so that you can wake up tomorrow and start the hangover.”

“Continue the hangover,” corrected Tony. “I think it _started_ somewhere over Ireland.”

He let Martin get him up and together they managed to get him into the bedroom and on the bed. It was pretty clear that there was no point in waiting for Tony to start taking his clothes off with his current complete lack of coordination, so Martin started undoing his trainers for him.

“Mmmm, valet service,” said Tony.

Martin snorted. “You did the same for me last time we were at yours,” he reminded him.

“Oh yeah,” said Tony, his eyes sliding shut. “That was frustrating. I wanted to be undressing you for sex and you just fell asleep on me.”

That stung. “It's not my fault I was tired,” he said, trying to keep himself from snapping it.

Tony's eyes flew open. “Oh no, hey, I didn't mean it like that, just- well. You weren't wrong in that article about how much long-distance sucks.”

Martin winced. “I really am so sorry about that, Tony,” he said, taking off Tony's last shoe and standing up. “I just had no idea she was a reporter.”

Tony was silent for a moment, then let out a long breath. “Yeah,” he said. “She's a bitch. They all are, just genuinely terrible people. How do they live with themselves?”

“The one in Duxford who sent us the photos didn't seem so bad,” said Martin, reaching to undo Tony's jeans.

“That's one,” said Tony. “One reporter who isn't a scum-sucking maggot versus all the other ones that are. That's not really a good ratio.”

Martin pulled his jeans off and draped the duvet over him. Tony grabbed for his wrist. “You're joining me, right?”

“Right,” agreed Martin. “But first I have to call Pepper, remember?”

Tony sighed and shut his eyes. “Oh, Pepper. Pepper Pepper Pep. She's going to make that face, you know.”

“I expect so,” said Martin, who only had a vague idea of which face Tony meant.

“'kay, well, I won't sleep till you get back,” said Tony. “I've spent too long sleeping alone to waste a moment of being in your bed.”

“Of course,” said Martin with amusement. Tony looked ninety percent asleep already.

He went into the sitting room to call Pepper, which went about as well as he'd expected.

“He did _what_?! Oh, for fuck's sake!”

She calmed down surprisingly quickly, though.

“Well, I suppose it's been a while since he's done something stupid. And it could have been a lot worse. Last time he got drunk and went on a jaunt it was a lot more public than flying over to his boyfriend's place. Get him to call me when he wakes up. I'll clear his schedule for the next couple of days, but he's going to seriously need to grovel to me about it.”

It was still early but Martin had no interest in sitting up when he had Tony Stark in his bed, even if he was passed out in a drunken stupor. He brushed his teeth and put his pyjamas on as quietly as possible, despite the fact that it would probably take an earthquake to rouse Tony at this point, then carefully slid into bed next to him.

Tony's eyes immediately flickered open, although it took him a couple of tries to focus on Martin's face. “Spitfire,” he said in a sleepy murmur, and groped out to embrace Martin's waist. “S'great.”

Martin moved in closer, reaching out to stroke a hand over Tony's shoulder. “Yeah,” he agreed, because Tony might be exhausted and drunk and AWOL from all his responsibilities, but it was really great to have him there. “Go to sleep,” he added.

“Yeah,” agreed Tony, his eyes shutting again.

He fell asleep almost immediately, but Martin didn't stop brushing his fingers over his shoulder until much later, when he finally fell asleep himself.

****

When he woke up the next morning, Tony was already awake but hadn't moved. He was staring at Martin with bleary, red-rimmed eyes, frown lines creasing his forehead.

Martin smiled at him. “Morning.”

Tony winced. “Can we just...talk in whispers for a bit?” he said in quiet voice.

“Feeling a bit tender?”

“Please, please tell me you have painkillers,” said Tony. “Lots of painkillers. Or failing that, an axe, so I can just take my whole head off and be done with it.”

“I think we'll go with the painkillers,” said Martin, getting out of bed to go find some. “I rather like your head as it is.”

“Even when it turns up drunk at your window?” asked Tony.

Martin didn't know how to respond to that, so he pretended he hadn't heard as he went into the bathroom to get the pills and some water. When he came back, Tony had dragged himself into a more-or-less upright position.

“Oh, thank god,” he said, taking the glass from Martin. “Nectar of the gods, seriously.” He swallowed the pills and took several large gulps of water, then winced. “Okay, maybe my stomach isn't quite up for godly nectar just yet.”

He put the glass on the bedside table and slumped back. “Jesus.”

Martin had half meant to go and find them both some breakfast but he couldn't resist crawling back in beside Tony. It wasn't as if Tony would really be able to cope with food yet anyway. He put an arm around him and Tony turned into it, cuddling into Martin and resting his head on his shoulder, face pressed into his neck.

“Oh man,” he muttered. “I feel like shit. And only mostly coz of the hangover. Sorry for just crashing in like that, I just- I don't know. I just couldn't stand the idea of waiting another week before seeing you, especially given our run of bad luck recently. It was beginning to feel like we'd never be in the same place at the same time.”

“Yeah,” agreed Martin.

“Even just another week would have been way too long to do this,” said Tony, pulling back so that he could press a kiss to Martin's lips, then curling back into him.

Martin rubbed a hand over his shoulder and took a plunge. “It felt like you were pulling away,” he confessed. “I know you were pissed off about the article. I am so sorry about that, Tony, I really am-”

“Yeah, I know,” said Tony. He ran a hand down Martin's chest, leaving his hand resting on his waist. “I was pissed, but more with the media than with you.”

“Yeah,” agreed Martin. “I really see why you hate them so much now. I can't believe she fooled me like that. She seemed so nice!”

Tony's hold on Martin's waist tightened sharply for a moment. “Fucking vultures,” he muttered, darkly.

Martin didn't have much to add to that. He stroked a hand down Tony's back, wondering if he should get up and think about putting coffee on. Even if Tony wasn't up for breakfast yet, he was always up for coffee.

“I wasn't pulling away,” said Tony, after a couple of quiet minutes during which Martin couldn't find the willpower to move. “It's been crazy busy, it's insane. We're doing all the organisation for the Maria Stark Foundation gala next month at the moment, we've got three big product launches coming up, and Namor went on a one-merman mission to attack the biggest polluters on the Eastern seaboard with giant, battle-crazed sea creatures. Kinda put me off sushi for life.”

“So, you don't want fish and chips for lunch, then,” said Martin.

Tony made a revolted sound. “Please don't talk about food,” he said. “My stomach hates me.”

Martin gently petted Tony's shoulder. Should he be using that as a prompt to talk to Tony about his drinking? No, not when he looked so ill. It would be better to wait until he felt better.

“So, no coffee then?” Martin asked, as innocently as he could.

“Don't blaspheme,” said Tony. “Always coffee. Always.”

“Right then,” said Martin and finally made himself get up, pulling away from Tony with great reluctance.

To his surprise, Tony followed him into the kitchen rather than staying in bed. He collapsed into one of the two chairs at the tiny table and put his head in his hands.

“Oh man, this is definitely in my top ten hangovers. Well, okay, top twenty. College was a crazy time.”

“Are you having regrets?” asked Martin, flicking on the kettle.

“Oh yeah,” said Tony. He hesitated, and added, “And also, not really. No way I'd be having coffee with you right now if I hadn't got drunk enough to just say 'fuck it' and fly to where I really wanted to be.”

Martin couldn't hold in a smile at the idea that his tiny flat was where Tony Stark wanted to be, given the kind of places he'd be welcome.

“I kinda regret the strip that Pepper's going to tear out of me,” said Tony, with a rueful look. He shrugged. “Eh, she always finds something to pick about. At least this one is big enough to warrant it.”

Martin handed him a cup of coffee and leaned down to kiss him. “I am really glad you're here,” he said. “Just, ah, don't tell Pepper that I wasn't disapproving. I don't want to earn her wrath as well.”

Tony nodded, ninety percent of his attention already aimed at the coffee. “I can do that,” he said, and took a gulp that must have burnt his mouth.

****

After coffee, Tony braced himself with a much-needed shower and then phoned Pepper while Martin had his own shower.

When Martin came out of the bathroom, Tony was sat on his bed, wearing a pair of Martin's jeans and one of the old t-shirts that he'd left behind on a previous visit, holding the phone in his hands and looking quietly thoughtful.

“Was she furious?”

Tony shook his head. “She was surprisingly chill, actually. I get the feeling she saw this coming, which- well. I'd be irritated that she knows me better than I know myself, but it usually works pretty well in my favour, so I reckon I'll just live with it. She's cleared my schedule so I can stay tonight, but I'll probably have to leave before lunch tomorrow.”

Martin nodded. “We're flying to Gran Canaria tomorrow anyway. And we'll be in New York on Friday. Unless there's another fire, or an Avengers emergency, or-”

“No sense in borrowing trouble,” interrupted Tony. “Anyway, that means it's only Monday to Thursday to get through. Four days. No time at all.”

 _Still too long,_ thought Martin, but there didn't seem any point in saying that.

Any fears he'd had about Tony wanting to break up with him had been completely killed by Tony's unexpected visit and the things he'd said earlier, but that didn't mean this thing wasn't still in danger of ending. Two visits within a week didn't change the continuing problems of a long-distance relationship.

From the very moment this thing had started, back in Mafikeng, it had felt like there was a ticking clock on it. They'd managed to keep pushing the inevitable end further and further away, but that didn't mean it had gone away completely. Sooner or later, it would tick down to zero.

“I feel like such shit still,” said Tony, heaving himself to his feet. “I can't believe that coffee didn't fix that. Feels like a complete betrayal, you know?”

_Given the size of your hangover, Tony, do you think that maybe your drinking has got out of hand?_

No. That wasn't the way to start this.

Martin found a smile and took his hand. “We'll spend the morning on the sofa,” he said. “You can tell me all about Namor's sea creatures.”

“And you can tell me just how many bits of clothing with cartoons of me on them you have,” said Tony, waggling his eyebrows. “Don't think I didn't see those socks last night.”

Martin felt himself blush, to Tony's great delight.

****

Tony fell asleep on the sofa after only an hour or so but Martin had been mostly expecting it, given how horrific he still looked. Martin couldn't remember ever having a hangover even close to that bad. He watched Tony for a while, wondering if there was more he could do to make him look less pale and sweaty, then forced himself to get up and get at least a bit of the housework he'd planned to do today done.

He was ironing when Tony twitched and woke up, which felt inevitable. Tony always seemed to wake up when Martin was ironing. There was something traditional about the way Tony stared at the ironing board with sleep-bleared eyes as if it was some kind of bizarre alien artefact.

No, that was wrong. If it had been an alien artefact, he'd have immediately jumped up to take it apart and work out what it did, rather than screwing up his face with incomprehension and a thin layer of disgust.

“Oh man, I'm really not feeling well enough to cope with this,” he said and pulled himself to his feet, stumbling off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” Martin called after him. Surely the hangover should be starting to fade by now? There was a shakiness to his steps that made Martin want to tuck him up in bed with some chicken soup or something. Was he coming down with something more serious than a hangover?

“Fine!” called back Tony and the bathroom door shut behind him.

Martin kept an ear out, but didn't hear anything worrying. On his way back, Tony detoured into the kitchen. “Want any water?” he asked.

“I'm fine, thanks,” said Martin.

Tony was in the kitchen for long enough to down a glass of water and brought a glass with him when he came in and sat back down on the sofa. He took a few careful sips and Martin was relieved to see he already looked better. Maybe he'd just been dehydrated.

“Don't lie to me, Spitfire, I'm a big boy, I can take it. Be brutally honest. Do you love ironing more than me? Or is it just some kind of fetish that- Oh, oh, have I rumbled the secret of your attraction to me? You're just using Iron Man as a substitute for the iron that is your true love. Alas and alack, how will I live with this pain?”

Martin glanced down at the iron and made a face. “I think I prefer my kinks without the chance of third degree burns.”

“Do you?” said Tony, with great interest. “And what sort of kinks might those be?”

“I think you could probably guess most of them without much prompting at this point in our relationship,” said Martin, turning the shirt over to start on the back.

Tony tipped his head to one side. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Still, one should never discount the chance of an unexpected hard on over a household chore.”

“Maybe one should also consider that an ironed shirt is an essential part of a pilot's uniform,” said Martin, folding the shirt he'd just finished and then pulling another one onto the ironing board.

“Nah, couldn't be,” said Tony. “I mean, I know I prefer it when said pilot is wearing no shirt at all.”

“That would hardly be professional,” said Martin.

“Eh, professional,” said Tony dismissively. “Hey, of course, it's not like you need to be professional now...” His eyebrows danced up and down.

Martin paused for a moment, then let out a faked sigh, set the iron to one side and peeled off his t-shirt. He tossed it at Tony before picking the iron up and continuing, trying very hard not to blush and utterly failing. His skin prickled with self-consciousness.

“Oh yeah,” said Tony with approval. “That's what I'm talking about. Come on, take it all off, baby.”

Martin felt the blush spread down his neck but resolutely kept ironing. “I think it's better if I build up a sense of anticipation and, um, intrigue.”

“Well, I'm definitely intrigued,” said Tony. “Hey, do you think that ironing board would be strong enough for us to fuck on it?”

Martin glared at him. “Definitely not,” he said. “And I really don't want any stains on it that might transfer to my clean shirts.”

Tony let out a long sigh. “Fine, spoilsport. We'll just have to do it somewhere boring and unimaginative, like on this sofa.” He held out his hands and imperiously beckoned at Martin.

“I still have three shirts to do,” said Martin.

Tony huffed. “There's a sense of anticipation, and then there's cruelly teasing your desperate boyfriend, who hasn't had sex with you for over two months. Two months! I'm surprised my dick hasn't just dropped off.”

Tony made a good point. Martin hesitated, which prompted Tony to give him a shit-eating grin that meant he knew he'd already won and strip off his own shirt.

Martin was only human. He set the iron down, turned it off so there wouldn't be a fire, and headed for the sofa.

****

Martin finally finished the ironing much, much later, after a lot of sex, another brief nap for Tony, and another set of showers for them both. Tony watched him for a bit, then got distracted with trying to hook Martin's telly up to his neighbour's Sky.

Martin finished ironing just as Tony realised that he didn't have any of the tools or wires that he'd need and starting talking about dismantling part of the Iron Man suit to provide...something. Martin wasn't really technically-minded enough to know what he was talking about.

“No,” he said, firmly. “I don't need Sky. I barely watch the channels I have.”

“Oh, come on, I bet we can find you some kind of aviation channel,” said Tony. “Back-to-back recordings of every air show from the last twenty years. Actually, that sounds pretty awesome, if we can't find one maybe I should set one up. Pepper is always talking about the importance of diversifying.”

“I'm not sure that's what she meant,” said Martin, putting the ironing board down. “Although I'm not saying you shouldn't. You should open with the de Havilland DH.88 Comet display at Shuttleworth this year. That was incredible.”

“Noted,” said Tony, setting down his screwdriver. “Okay, I'm giving up.”

Martin was too deeply involved in the usual fight to get the ironing board into the cupboard without it bashing his shins or clipping his head to respond immediately. When he'd forced the door shut and was seventy-five percent sure that it wouldn't fall on him the moment he opened it next time, he turned around to see Tony watching him with a fondly amused expression.

“God, I love you,” he said, and strode over to kiss Martin, which he wasn't about to complain about even if he wasn't sure what had prompted it.

“Okay, good,” he managed, trying to sound confident and having to clear his throat to take the squeak out of his voice. “Well, then, you'll let me buy you dinner.”

There was a moment when Martin saw Tony open his mouth to insist he paid instead, then his eyes flickered and he grinned instead. “Oh, hell yeah. I'm always up for a sexy man buying me dinner.”

Martin smiled and kissed him as a reward for swallowing back his instinctive urge to throw money at Martin. He'd got steadily better about Martin paying for things over the last year, although he did sometimes still need prompting.

They went to an Italian in the centre of Fitton that they'd been to a couple of times before. The staff had just about got used to the idea that Tony Stark was a real human being who occasionally sat at one of their tables, but hadn't got blasé about him being there. They did put them in a dark corner though, so that most of the other diners were unaware they had one of Earth's mightiest heroes in their presence.

“You're not flying super-early tomorrow, are you? ” said Tony, flipping open the wine menu. “We can totally split a bottle of wine. Maybe two.”

“Uh,” said Martin, and felt his mouth dry up. This was it; the opening he'd been looking for to talk about Tony's drinking. Tony glanced up and raised his eyebrows and Martin found himself fighting the urge to just nod and smile and not risk ruining any part of this.

No. No, he had to say something. He pictured exactly how Tony had looked last night, arriving at his window so drunk that he could barely stand up.

“Actually, don't you think it might be a good idea to stay sober? At least for tonight?”

Tony snorted. “Nope,” he said. “C'mon, I'm having dinner with my sexy boyfriend. That definitely calls for a celebratory drink. Oh, hey, this is the place with the epic garlic bread, right? We should get that as well.”

Martin swallowed. Okay, well, he hadn't thought it was going to be that easy. He put his menu down and did his best to marshal his thoughts into complete, coherent sentences.

“I just think you drink too much. No! Wait, that wasn't how I wanted to phrase that at all, ignore it completely, I just meant to say that, um, well, I know you've always drunk a lot and you think it's fine – and maybe it is, I mean, it hasn't stopped you doing any of the awesome things you've done – but, uh, recently it really feels like every time I call you're drunk or hungover or you're asleep in the middle of the day and JARVIS won't tell me why, which means it's because you were up all night drinking and, just, I don't want to be all preachy and I know I really don't drink enough to know what is and isn't okay, but I worry about it because, well, because happy people don't drink that much and I want you to be happy. And healthy, I want you to be happy and healthy and I really don't think you're either at the moment and you were just so drunk last night, seriously Tony, not that it's not great that you came over, you know how happy I am to see you, but I really think maybe it would be better if you just let yourself recover a bit and, um, maybe just stayed sober. For a bit. And maybe more often when you're back home, although I know I don't have the right to dictate your life choices.”

He stopped to take a much-needed breath. Tony's expression had stilled into one of the masks he used when he was facing a hostile journalist and Martin felt a sickening, sinking feeling that he'd said completely the wrong thing. Oh god, was this going to be the thing that made Tony walk away?

“I'm just worried about you,” he finished, misery sinking through him at the horrible mess he'd made of dinner before they'd even made it as far as ordering.

“Hi, guys,” said the waitress, brandishing her notepad and trying desperately to look as if she wasn't giddy with excitement at serving Tony Stark. “Can I get you any drinks?”

Tony closed the wine menu and set it back down. “Just a jug of water, thanks.”

Martin swallowed dryly and gave her a very wobbly smile. “Can we have a moment before we order food?”

“Of course,” she said, clicking her pen shut. “One jug of water, then.”

Tony stayed silent as she moved away. Martin felt as if his heart was going to hammer out of his chest. What had made him think it would be a good idea to say that? Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Tony's fingers drummed on the table. “Okay.”

Martin stared at him. “What?”

Tony gave a little shrug. “Okay. As in 'okay, maybe you have a point'. I do know it's been getting a bit....messy, lately.”

“Oh,” said Martin, then wondered why he couldn't come out with something more coherent. He'd started this with the vague idea of being able to help Tony with whatever it was that made him drink so much, but that would involve the ability to form coherent, useful sentences and Martin had no idea how to do that right now.

Tony's mouth quirked up in a small smile and he reached out for Martin's hand. “C'mon, take a deep breath. I bullied you into telling me about your money thing, this is just payback, right?”

Martin managed to return the smile. “I'm pretty sure these sorts of conversations are meant to be part of a mature, adult relationship and not an escalating revenge war.”

Tony waved that off. “Pfah. That sounds dull as hell. Nope, this time you may have got me but next time, Spitfire, I swear, you'll regret it. I'll make you talk about your- your- I don't know, I'll find something. Just wait.”

The waitress came back with the water. "Are you ready to order now?"

“Oh yeah,” said Tony. “We want garlic bread. Loads of garlic bread. With ludicrous amounts of cheese.”

****

They didn't talk about it again over dinner. Tony stuck to drinking water, even when the waitress asked if they wanted a nightcap at the end and Martin could see temptation lingering in Tony's eyes.

“Just coffee, thanks,” he said, and Martin was filled with a rush of affection for him. He reached out and squeezed his hand. All the long weeks of never seeing each other, all the stress of reporters and supervillains, all of it was completely worth it, just for this. Just for having Tony grinning at him across a table, his feelings for Martin as clear on his face as Martin's for him were in his heart.

The feeling stayed with him through coffee and as they left the restaurant, Martin slipped an arm around Tony's waist. “Thanks.”

Tony draped his arm over Martin's shoulders but didn't reply. Martin wasn't sure if he even knew what Martin was thanking him for.

They walked through Fitton for a while, then Tony let out a short sigh. “Okay, so, here's the thing. I know we both hate these kinds of emotional talks, but I figure we're due another one and putting it off just makes things worse.” He sent a very brief glance at Martin before turning away to look up at the night sky again. “I think we can both agree that things have been- spiralling a bit, lately.”

Martin felt his mouth go dry, but he nodded. “It feels like everything's getting harder.”

“Yeah,” agreed Tony with a sigh. “I mean, we've had shit luck with seeing each other, but that's not all of it. Even if I was seeing you every other week, it still wouldn't be enough. You said you wanted me to be happy and, well, I am right now, now that I'm here with you, but the rest of the time, it's just- I just miss you all the time.”

“Yeah,” exhaled Martin, feeling his chest begin to tighten with emotion. “I do too. Miss you, I mean.”

“And when I miss you, it just seems like the best thing to do is have a few drinks and try and forget about it, but it seems to be taking more and more alcohol for that.”

Martin tightened his arm around Tony's waist. “You can't keep doing that,” he said. “Tony, please. Next time, just call me or something instead.”

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “Even if it's 3 AM where you are?”

“Yes,” said Martin firmly. “Definitely. You can always wake me up for that, if it will help.”

“What about if you're flying?” asked Tony. “It's not – I can't use you for a lifeline 24/7, Spitfire, it's not practical.”

Martin hesitated. “Not when I'm flying,” he agreed, “but the rest of the time – yes. You can. It's what I'm here for. I love you.”

Tony ducked his head. “I love you, too,” he said, but there was a note of defeat in his voice that Martin empathised with. No matter how much time they spent on the phone, the root of the problem still remained.


	3. Chapter 3

They pretty much went straight to bed when they get back from the restaurant, which completely distracted the part of Tony's brain that was wondering why he hadn't had a drink yet. Not that he had a problem or anything, that was just habit. He could totally go a night or two without drinking if it would make Martin feel better, because yeah, okay, maybe it had all been getting a bit crutch-like. He could totally rein that back in, though. Okay, so, he'd felt so shit that morning that he'd nipped into Martin's kitchen and necked some whiskey from his top shelf a couple of times, but everyone who really understood hangovers knew that the best cure was the hair of the dog, right? And it had worked. He'd felt much better after that.

It took him a while to get to sleep. He was awake long after Martin had dropped off. He got trapped thinking about the apparently insurmountable problem of the ocean between them, trying to figure out some way to halt the inevitable day when the pressure of the distance tore them apart. 

Being a futurist was great until you were in a relationship, and then it was just shit. He could already trace out the line of how this thing was going to end and there didn't seem to be any way to stop it. The thoughts racing through his head made his heart pound. Even after he'd dropped off he woke up several times, shaken out of sleep by nightmares that mixed Martin leaving him or being killed with memories of Afghanistan.

By the morning, his head was pounding and he felt shaky and sick. Martin was still quietly snoring beside him. The sinking realisation that they only had a couple of hours before Martin was due to fly to Gran Canaria and Tony would have to head back to New York flooded through him.

_Only four days,_ he reminded himself. Martin would be in New York before Pepper had even stopped glaring at Tony for this escapade.

Martin's snoring stopped, his eyes fluttered open and he focused on Tony. An automatic smile spread over his face. “Morning.”

Tony couldn't help smiling back. God, why couldn't he wake up with this man every morning?

“Morning,” he replied. “My turn to get the coffee, I think.”

“God, yes please,” said Martin and really, how was Tony meant to not be in love with someone who knew exactly how important coffee was?

He rolled over on top of Martin so that he could kiss him and, well, one thing lead to another, and it was a while before either of them had any coffee. Totally worth it, though.

At some point while Tony had been resting his eyes on the sofa yesterday, Martin had washed the clothes he'd been wearing when he'd arrived, which sadly meant that he didn't have an excuse to steal any of Martin's. Probably for the best. As much fun as it was to wear his boyfriend's clothes like a sorority girl, Martin was skinnier than he was, which meant Tony put a bit of a strain on the seams.

Martin put on his uniform, which kinda made Tony want to strip it off him again and go back to bed.

“Are you sure you're okay to fly all the way back in the suit?” he fussed as Tony quietly perved on him.

“Totally fine,” said Tony. “Seriously, I've flown way further before, and this time I'm sober and well-rested and all that shit.”

“Are you?” said Martin. He checked that his pilot's licence was in his flight bag for what had to be the fourth time that morning. Tony wanted to cuddle him until he stopped being so adorable. He zipped up the pocket then gave Tony a worried frown. “Because you really don't look well. If you're coming down with something, you should stay here and recuperate.”

“I'm fine,” lied Tony.

Martin's frown didn't shift. “I don't know, you're-”

“Don't mother-hen me,” snapped Tony.

Martin blinked and turned away to check his licence again, even though they both knew that the next check in his schedule wasn't until he got in his van. “Sorry,” he offered in a stiff voice.

Tony bit his tongue. Where had that come from? “I'm fine,” he said again, in as gentle a voice as he could manage. “And even if I wasn't, it isn't like JARVIS hasn't flown me home when I was far worse than a bit under the weather.”

Martin straightened up and looked back at him, then gave a quick nod. “Right, okay. But you're not going back through the window.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “I'm not?”

“No,” said Martin firmly. “If the landlord found out, he would not be pleased. I don't want to be thrown out of the first nice place I've had since I lived with my parents.”

“I told you to get a place with a balcony,” said Tony. “Or, you know, I could just build you a place, one with a proper landing bay for the suit.”

“You are not building me a house,” said Martin, firmly.

Tony decided not to show him the three different designs he'd already knocked up for it. Not even the one that had a private airfield out the back, and the hangar where he could keep the Spitfire Tony really, really wanted to buy for him every time he saw one up for sale. Not that he had a saved search for them on Aerotrader.com or anything, no way.

Saying goodbye in the parking lot meant that half of Martin's neighbours were watching from their windows. Something about a man in a fully-mechanised flying suit of armour attracted attention.

“I'll see you Friday,” said Martin.

“Definitely,” said Tony. Friday felt a very long time away, which was ridiculous. They'd gone far longer between visits than that.

“And you- if you need to, you'll call me,” said Martin, a thread of nervousness in his voice that made Tony agree instantly, just to make it go away.

“Yeah, definitely,” he said. “Don't worry, Spitfire, I swear I'll be more careful. Apart from anything else, I really am getting too old for that kind of hangover.”

Martin nodded but Tony could tell from his expression that he wasn't going to stop worrying any time soon. Suddenly, the whole damn thing just made him exhausted. He pressed another kiss to Martin's lips then closed the faceplate and stepped back. “Watch out,” he said, and Martin skittered back a few steps.

Tony took off without bothering with more tearful goodbyes and found himself wobbling alarmingly as he went up into the sky.

“Run a diagnostic, JARVIS,” he said, levelling out once he'd reached a comfortable altitude. Somewhere below him, Martin would be checking his licence one more time, then heading off to the airport.

“All of the suit's systems are functioning perfectly, Sir,” said JARVIS.

There was an emphasis on _the suit's_ that made Tony sigh. “Okay, yeah, I get it. It's been two days and I'm still hungover. Just, do me a favour and don't mention that to Pepper, yeah? Or Cap.”

“I do not believe your condition falls under the category of 'hangover',” said JARVIS. “My analysis of the symptoms you are presenting, along with the data I have collected on your health and well-being indicates that you are experiencing alcohol withdrawal.”

“What?” said Tony. “Oh, come on, that's-”

He hesitated. When was the last time he'd gone as long as this without a drink? Even yesterday, despite the hangover, he'd still had a couple while Martin was in the other room. It was just part of his daily routine to have a drink every few hours.

“You are experiencing a heightened heart rate, sweating, a headache, nausea, irritability and tremors,” continued JARVIS. “Data indicates that these are likely to continue for the next forty-eight hours. Unless you imbibe more alcohol,” he added, with more disapproval than Tony thought he'd programmed into him.

“Right, okay,” he said, mind racing. Hearing his symptoms listed like that had brought home just how shit he felt and how much he wanted a drink. How had he let it get this bad? “And if I don't have a drink?”

“The immediate symptoms will fade after a day or two, although you are likely to still experience a mild fever, irritability and a fast pulse for longer. Depression and alcohol cravings, with occasional headaches and nausea, are likely to continue for the next few weeks, possibly months.”

Months. How had he let himself get so fucked up that it would take months to clear this away?

The nausea had built up during the conversation and he could feel his hands shaking, affecting his flight pattern. The sun glinting off the waves of the Atlantic stabbed at his headache. Maybe Martin had been right last night. Maybe it was time for a detox, and not just for one night.

****

It was just before lunchtime in New York when Tony landed. Steve was on the balcony with a sketch book and raised an arm to wave at him as the rig took the armour off.

“Have a nice trip?” he asked with deceptive innocence.

“Fantastic,” said Tony. “Did'ja miss me? Fight anything fun?”

Steve was too busy frowning at Tony. “Are you okay? You look a bit unwell.”

Tony pinned a smile on. “Fine,” he said, wishing there was some way to hide the sweat beading on his forehead. “Long trip, you know.”

“Ah,” said Steve, looking at him with perceptive eyes that knew all too well that Tony often flew on longer trips.

“I need a shower,” said Tony, escaping the uncomfortable feeling that came with people he cared about knowing him too well.

The shower was blissful, although even after he'd come out, he still looked like hell in the mirror. His eyes were red-rimmed and glazed in a pale, clammy face and his hands were still shaking. He leaned on the sink for a moment, taking a long breath, and thought about how easy it would be to head back into his bedroom and pour himself a drink from the bar he kept in there. Martin wouldn't have to know.

_I'd know,_ he thought. Now that it had been brought home to him just how bad he'd let this get, he knew that giving in to it would feel like losing.

“JARVIS,” he said. “New protocol. If I pour myself a drink – an alcoholic drink – you ask me if I want to call Martin, okay? Valid for, oh, the next five days.”

Martin would be here himself after that and by then Tony should have a handle on this, right? After all, he'd overcome a major heart problem with a bag of scraps in a cave. He could prove his willpower to be stronger than the lure of a glass of whiskey.

“Understood, sir,” said JARVIS.

He went back into the bedroom to dress and found his gaze lingering on the bar in the corner. There were at least five bottles of whiskey in it, as well as a few other odds and ends that whichever minion had stocked it had thought necessary.

The temptation it represented was ridiculous. He could almost taste the whiskey pouring down his throat now, just from looking at it. His heart beat sped up and he pressed a hand to his chest, collapsing onto the edge of the bed as nausea surged in his stomach.

“Christ,” he gritted out. “Who the hell thought a bedroom needed a bar anyway?”

JARVIS remained silent, which Tony was grateful for because he already knew the answer. Every bedroom he'd had since he was nineteen had had a bar built in.

Okay, well, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. If he was going to go to meet Martin at the airport on Friday and be able to tell him that he hadn't had a drink since he'd last seen him, then he needed to get rid of the obvious traps.

He pulled some clothes on and then hauled an old suitcase out of the wardrobe. He filled it with all the bottles from the bar, and the one he kept in the bedside table. That probably wasn't something that sober people did either.

“JARVIS, is Steve still around?”

“Captain Rogers is in his rooms,” said JARVIS.

Okay, right. Tony picked up the suitcase and took it over to Steve's rooms. He hesitated before knocking but forced himself to go through with it.

Steve had charcoal dusted on his fingers when he opened the door.

“Hey, Cap,” said Tony. “Need you to look after something for me.” He handed the suitcase over, wincing at the tell-tale chink of bottles tapping together.

Steve took it with a frown, but he didn't ask any questions. “Sure thing.”

“Only for a bit,” said Tony. “Just keep it tucked away, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Steve.

Tony dipped a nod at him and hurried away as quickly as he could. Well, that would stop him from getting anywhere near that lot. No way he'd risk Steve's disapproving look.

He had been meaning to head down to the workshop, but the thought of all the bottles he had littered around down there stopped him short.

“JARVIS, which rooms don't have booze in them?” he asked. “No, wait, don't tell me, just- get Dummy and You to pack up all the booze in the workshop and put it in storage, yeah? Somewhere in deep storage, don't tell me where. And don't let Butterfingers help, the last thing I need is broken glass all over the floor.”

“Understood, sir,” said JARVIS. “It will take approximately forty-five minutes.”

“Okay, great,” said Tony. Maybe he should have lunch to fill the time.

****

He spent the afternoon trying to lose himself in electronics, without much success. His hands weren't steady enough for any delicate work and his headache had built up enough to make concentrating on a computer display impossible. When JARVIS broke through his music with a message from Steve, he'd got almost nothing done.

“Captain Rogers wishes to know if you will be dining with the group tonight.”

Tony sighed and rubbed his hands through his hair. “Who's here?”

“Captain Rogers, Agent Barton and Prince Odinson,” said JARVIS. “Captain Rogers is making spaghetti bolognaise.”

Tony made a face. He'd managed a sandwich for lunch and one of Dummy's smoothies around mid-afternoon, but he wasn't sure his stomach was up for a real meal. Still, picking at Steve's cooking would probably be better than staying down here, fiddling about but making no real progress except in frustrating himself.

“Tell him I'm on my way up,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” said JARVIS.

Tony couldn't bring himself to eat more than a bite or two or dinner, which earned him Steve's disappointed look.

“Too much salt?” he asked.

Tony couldn't really be bothered to deal with reassuring him over his cooking skills, so just gave a shrug. “Too many smoothies in the workshop,” he lied.

"Right," said Steve, still eyeing Tony's full plate as if it was a personal failure. Tony rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.

“My friend, I am greatly enjoying your culinary skills,” said Thor, who had a cleanly polished plate in front of him. “Indeed, if Tony does not wish to finish his meal, then I will gladly assist him.”

Tony pushed the plate in his direction. “Go nuts.”

Thor gathered it up with a broad smile. “Your generosity is equal only to your intelligence.”

You could always count on Thor to cheer you up. Tony found a smile. “Yeah, very true,” he agreed. “And my sex appeal beats both of them.”

“Your modesty, on the other hand, could use some work,” said Clint.

Tony made a disgusted noise. “Modesty is for losers. I have an accurate picture of my own attributes, that's all. I do have a bunch of awards for intelligence, generosity and sexiness, after all.”

“This world seems overly keen to hand out awards for such things,” said Thor. “In Asgard, we would hold a grand competition if we were to give out such prizes. “

“If it helps, both you and Cap beat Tony on the People Sexiest Men Of The Year list for last year,” said Clint, giving Tony an irritatingly smug grin.

Tony scowled. “Like it's fair to put gods and super-soldiers on the same list as the rest of us.”

“You know, looks aren't everything,” said Steve.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Thanks, I'll get that put on an inspirational poster, next to a photo of your bulging muscles and baby-blue eyes.”

God, he wanted a drink so badly. Sitting at the dinner table and bantering with the guys like this just didn't seem complete without the smooth reassurance of a glass in his hand.

“Are you staying the night?” Steve asked Thor.

Thor nodded. “Jane is involved in a complex female ritual known as a bachelorette party tonight.”

“Sounds like the perfect chance for us to have a movie night," said Clint. "What shall we catch these guys up on tonight, Stark? _The Human Centipede_? _Debbie Does Dallas_?”

“Has anyone shown Thor _Braveheart_ yet?” asked Tony. Thor frowned and shook his head. “Oh man, you're going to lose your shit.”

“Best plan ever,” said Clint, holding up a hand for Tony to high-five.

They put on _Braveheart_ , and Thor lost his shit.

Tony tried hard to let himself get distracted by the Norse God leaping on the sofa and brandishing his hammer while yelling, “Curse those evil English! The blue-smeared man must prevail!” but he couldn't get his mind off the enormous bar that was right there, so close, and no one would bat an eyelid if he went and poured himself a drink, they probably thought it was weird that he hadn't yet, it would be so easy, so simple.

He was shaking again. God, when would that stop? He held himself as rigidly as he could, locking every muscle up, clenching his jaw, and yet still he could feel it. What if it didn't stop? What if he just quietly vibrated from now on? He wouldn't be able to get anything done. He should get a drink just to stop, to get some control back.

“FREEEEEDOOOOMM!!!!” bellowed Thor, jolting Tony out of his thoughts to find that he'd buried his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

Christ, how had he let himself get this bad? He scrubbed at his head then looked up to find both Clint and Steve's eyes on him. How long had they been watching him? What were they thinking? He glared at them until they refocused on the screen. He forced his own eyes in the same direction, even though he'd already lost track of the plot and didn't even care all that much. His heart was pounding again; what if that wasn't the alcohol withdrawal but a problem with the arc reactor? What if all this shaking had jolted free some of the shrapnel and he was about to go into cardiac arrest?

Steel bands closed around his chest. What if he were already having a heart attack?

No. No, this was ridiculous. He wasn't having a heart attack, the arc reactor was fine, this was just all in his head. Come on, he might not be able to trust much, but he could trust his tech. It was pretty much the only thing that had always come through for him.

By the time Mel Gibson had been tortured to death, Tony had ridden out the worst of the emotions that had descended on him and was taking long, slow breaths to push back the rest. 

Thor was perched on the edge of the sofa, cuddling Mjolnir like a teddy bear. “My friends,” he said in emotional tones as the credits rolled. “This was a valiant tale. I thank you for sharing it with me.”

Clint patted his shoulder. “No problem, big guy. Just, you know, please don't cover yourself in blue warpaint, yeah?”

“It was a heroic look but I do not feel it would suit me,” said Thor, which was an enormous relief. “Friend Tony, you are strangely silent and oddly pale. Did you not enjoy the tale?”

Tony plastered a smile on but it felt as fake as Mel Gibson's acting. “I'm fine,” he said. “Just tired.”

Thor frowned at him for a moment and then his face cleared. “You miss Martin,” he said. “I understand. It drains the soul to be separated from the ones we love.”

God, did it ever. “He's coming here on Friday,” said Tony, because he was holding on to that like a lifeline.

“Does he come with his companions?” asked Thor, perking up.

Tony winced. “If you and Arthur blow up any more of my tower, you're both going to be banned for life.”

“Fear not, I will preserve our dwelling,” said Thor. “I have promised friend Arthur that I will take him flying when next we meet.”

“Oh god,” said Tony, suddenly facing a whole new source of extreme anxiety.

****

Everyone headed off to bed after that. Tony couldn't think of a reason to make them all stay awake with him that wasn't 'please, please, just hold me down and stop me drinking', so instead he went to his bedroom and locked himself in.

He felt tense and stressed, and generally like there was no way in hell he was going to get to sleep tonight. Usually, this was where he reached for a bottle and drank himself to sleep. Or gave up on the whole idea and went down to his workshop, but there was no way he was going to get anything done when his hands were still shaking and his concentration was shot.

“JARVIS,” he said, “give me a list of common cures for, uh, nervous tension. That don't involve booze.”

“A brief scan of the internet reveals that meditation, talking things through with a friend or close associate, a long bath and breathing techniques are most commonly referenced as cures for such a state,” said JARVIS. “Would you like me to do a more detailed study?”

Tony shook his head. “Nope, that's good.” Well, he wasn't pissing about with meditation or breathing techniques and he sure as hell wasn't talking to anyone about this. “Run me a bath, would you?”

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a bath. Surely the novelty would distract him, if nothing else?

The novelty worked for about thirty seconds before he remembered that he didn't take baths because of how god-awfully boring they were. He splashed his fingers through the foam that JARVIS had decided a bath was incomplete without, then took a deep breath. “Okay, fine,” he said. “JARVIS, put on....I don't know. Something calming.”

JARVIS put _Short Circuit_ on, projected on the wall opposite the bath. Tony was about to protest that he wasn't a kid any more, then a wave of nostalgia broke over him and he shut his mouth again. Fuck it, no one but JARVIS had to know he was watching a kids film, and JARVIS had seen him do far worse.

He kept the bath topped up with hot water but by the time the film was over, he was more than ready to get out. He felt better than he had before; less likely to have some sort of over-the-top mental breakdown, but he still didn't think he'd be able to sleep. He could still clearly picture the closest bottle of whiskey, which was in the cabinet in the library, only one floor down. There was no one between him and it, no one except his own will power. Well, and JARVIS.

He got into bed and lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't feel any closer to sleep.

“What time is it in Gran Canaria?” he asked.

“Five thirteen AM,” said JARVIS.

Tony hesitated. Martin would be asleep, but he'd been very adamant that Tony could phone him at any time, if he needed to. Did this count as needing to? He felt like he was losing his mind, but that wasn't exactly unusual for him.

It would be much easier to just go and get a bottle, and drink himself to sleep.

He took a deep breath. “Call Spitfire.”

It rang a handful of times before Martin picked up, sounding bleary.

“'lo?”

Just the sound of his voice immediately made Tony feel better. “Hey, Spitfire,” he said. “Sorry to wake you.”

There was a rustling noise. “S'fine,” said Martin. “Is everything okay?”

Well, that was the million dollar question that Tony probably should have come up with an answer to before he called.

“Sure,” he lied, unconvincingly. “Just couldn't sleep, is all.”

“Right,” said Martin, stifling a yawn. “What've you been up to today?”

Yeah, that wasn't a question Tony want to answer truthfully. “Spent some time in the workshop, then we watched _Braveheart_ with Thor, which was hilarious,” he said. “How was your flight? Did you do the landing?”

“It was fine,” said Martin. “Well, there was a bit of a cross wind, but it didn't affect the approach that much. Do you know Las Palmas airport?”

“Nope,” said Tony, settling down into his pillows. “You'll have to describe the lay-out for me.”

“Okay," said Martin. “Well, there are two runways there...”

Tony let his eyes fall shut as Martin's voice surrounded him. Perfect.

****

When he woke up, it was morning. He'd been dreaming about GERTI flying through a wormhole over New York, Martin cheerfully waving at him through the cockpit window, apparently unaware that he was about to asphyxiate in the vacuum of space.

“Jesus fuck,” Tony muttered, pressing a hand to his racing heart.

“Good morning, sir,” said JARVIS, and then gave Tony his morning updates. “It is eight seventeen on Monday the twenty-fifth of August. The weather is sunny with the occasional cloud. Captain Crieff is currently in the air over southern England.”

Southern England. Not another galaxy.

“Awesome,” said Tony. “I need coffee.”

He felt better than he had yesterday but still not great. Once he'd downed two strong cups of coffee, he just about felt human enough to deal with some of the SI paperwork that had built up over the past few days.

Steve turned up at his office door around lunchtime and dragged him out for burgers, claiming that they needed to discuss important Avengers business, but mostly they just bickered about baseball. Actually, that probably counted as important Avengers business; if Steve didn't get to vent about baseball at least once a week, he got all frustrated and tense.

He went down to his workshop after that and found his hands and brain were back to being able to cope with fine electronics. Fucking finally.

By the time Martin called, Tony had rebuilt the filtration system on the suit, invented three new kinds of arrow for Clint, one of which might even turn out to be useful, and was working on blowing the competition out of the water on the next range of Stark tablets by incorporating a holographic interface.

He abandoned it all to collapse onto the workshop sofa and get JARVIS to hook up the video interface with Martin's flat.

“You look much better,” said Martin, and Tony beamed at him.

“I've been tinkering,” he said. “You should see what I'm doing with micro-circuitry, it would blow your mind.”

Martin didn't looked convinced, probably because he didn't know that much about micro-circuitry to start with. Tony made a mental note to make an aviation breakthrough in the next month or so. Oh wait, the Quinjet was going to be launched, he was covered.

He talked to Martin for an hour or so, which was great, but there was still that moment just after they'd said goodbye and hung up when Tony suddenly felt very alone. That was usually when he'd pour himself a drink.

He took a deep breath. “JARVIS, bring those schematics back up.”

He worked through the night. Every time he found himself craving alcohol, he asked JARVIS to bring up a different project, until he had all his in-progress files open, spread all around the workshop. It kept him just distracted enough to stop him from searching for the hiding place the bots had chosen for his alcohol stash.

He dragged himself upstairs in time to have breakfast with whomever was around. At some point, Bruce had come back from wherever he'd been; some dull as hell biology conference, probably. He gave Tony his usual worried look when Tony headed straight for the coffee machine.

“Are you okay? You seem a bit wired.”

“Fine,” said Tony. “Pulled an all-nighter, you know.”

“Right,” said Bruce, giving him a careful look that made Tony strongly suspect that he'd spoken to either Steve or Clint since he'd been back.

He ignored it. As long as he could pretend that no one knew what was going on, he didn't have to worry about what they'd think of him if he didn't manage to sustain this.

He had a meeting that morning that he managed to be showered and in a suit for, but he wasn't really paying much attention to the budget figures being tossed around. Fuck it, that was what he paid Pepper for.

He was exhausted by the time it was over so he headed straight to bed, passing out almost as quickly as if he'd downed a bottle of Talisker.

He didn't stay passed out. He dreamt of angry voices shouting in Farsi and the sting of electric shocks deep in his chest and woke up drenched in sweat and sucking in deep breaths.

Oh, Christ. It had been a long time since he'd had one that bad. He needed a drink.

No. No, he couldn't. He needed to find new coping strategies. Right.

“JARVIS, call Martin.”

“I'm afraid that Captain Crieff is currently flying and his phone is turned off,” said JARVIS.

Tony felt despair lap at the edges of his mind. He clenched his fingers into the bedsheets as if all he needed to do was hold on tight enough to stop himself from heading to the nearest alcohol.

“However,” continued JARVIS, “he has left me with some recordings that he asked me to play if you wished to speak to him while he was unable to answer the phone.”

Tony perked up. “Yeah? Go on, then.”

It started with Martin nervously clearing his throat, which was just perfect.

“Um. Hi, Tony. You said you felt better when you spoke to me but I can't answer the phone while I'm flying, so I thought this would help. Or, um, it won't at all and I'm being an idiot, but it's not like I've never been an idiot in front of you before.

“I don't really know what to say. Um. You seem to like my aviation anecdotes - did I ever tell you about the Avro Vulcan display I saw a couple of years ago? It was possibly the most exciting flying I've seen. They were-”

Tony relaxed back, letting Martin's voice wash over him and felt the tension seep out of his shoulders. Man, he really had the best boyfriend ever.

Within twenty-four hours, Tony had listened to all 5 messages that Martin had recorded at least twice each. Screw waiting until he needed to speak to Martin while he was unavailable; self-control was for other people. He wasn't sure if his favourite was the one about the Avro Vulcan display, or the one about the first time Martin ever went on a plane and was so excited he threw up. He listened to them whenever he had a chance, until he found himself welding a circuit while listening to Martin talking about the intricacies of landing a plane at Madeira's airport and occasionally mouthing the words along with him, because he'd heard it so many times he basically had it memorised.

“JARVIS, is this kinda weird and creepy?” he asked in the pause before the recording cycled around to the next one.

There was a telling pause. “I do not fully comprehend the parameters to make such a judgement,” said JARVIS. “However, it appears that any coping mechanisms that would prevent alcohol abuse and that causes no harm to either one's self or another are deemed acceptable by the wider community.”

Fair enough. Tony turned back to his welding as Martin started to tell him about the incident with Arthur's cake and the trip to Helsinki.

****

****

“Do you think Stark knows that he's employing a complete git to run his European division?” asked Carolyn loudly, as she came into the cockpit.

Martin thought about how easily sound travelled in a tiny plane like GERTI and hoped like hell that Hans Bernard was asleep, had headphones in or was at least partially deaf. He waited until the door was completely shut before replying. 

“I think Pepper knows,” he said, thinking back to the last time they'd flown Bernard over, just after Tony had been swept through a wormhole.

Carolyn let out a huff. “Perhaps I should have a word with her about him. It can't be good PR to have someone like that representing the company.”

“I'm not sure you're in a position to judge,” said Douglas. “We have Arthur representing the company. _Arthur_.”

“Arthur has never referred to anyone as 'his bitch',” snapped Carolyn. “Herr Bernard, on the other hand, has decided that as Martin is in a relationship with Tony and this company is a subcontractor to Stark Industries, that makes us all 'his bitches'.”

Martin winced. Douglas sucked in a pained breath.

“However, we are professionals, and as such, we will not be throwing him out of the plane at thirty thousand feet,” said Carolyn. “No matter how tempted we are.”

Arthur came in with a tray of tea and coffee. “Mum, Mr Bernard said-”

“I don't care,” said Carolyn. “In fact, Arthur, from now on, neither do you. That oaf has forfeited his right to any kind of cabin service. You will ignore any and all of his future requests.”

“Will I?” said Arthur. “Okay, but what if he asks for-”

“You will ignore it,” said Carolyn. “If he has any complaints, you may direct him to me.”

“That's what I usually do,” agreed Arthur cheerfully. “And lots of the time they ask if they can speak to my supervisor themselves.”

“Lord knows you do need a supervisor,” said Carolyn with a sigh.

“That's what Herc said the other day, when I offered to make him breakfast,” said Arthur.

“Oh, there for breakfast, was he?” said Douglas, turning to give Carolyn a smirk.

“What if he was?” snapped Carolyn. “It is not unknown for friends to occasionally stay the night. It doesn't have to mean anything.”

“Is he still moving to Zurich?” asked Martin, which earned him a hard glare.

“A decision has not yet been reached,” snapped out Carolyn.

“Herc said that he'd stay if you wanted him to,” said Arthur. “You should just ask him. He can come and live with us and supervise me making breakfast and-”

“Herc is an adult and can make his own decisions,” said Carolyn, firmly.

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Okay. But what if he doesn't know that's a decision he's allowed to make? Because sometimes I get confused about which decisions I'm allowed to make and which I am absolutely under no circumstances to even think about making.”

“The ones you are not allowed to make are the moronic ones,” snapped Carolyn. “The ones like eating twenty packs of popping candy and then trying to jump out of your bedroom window. Herc, on the other hand, is more than mature enough to know not to do anything of the kind.”

Martin didn't quite understand that. If Carolyn wanted Herc to stay in England, why didn't she just say so? Surely she wasn't expecting him to read her mind? Actually, this was Carolyn. She probably was. 

“There's a difference between knowing not to do silly things, and knowing what someone else wants or, or, would like you to do,” he said.

Carolyn had the mulish expression that usually meant she was about to insult them all and storm out, but instead her eyes caught on Martin's face, which almost certainly looked confused, and she sighed. 

“My position should be clear,” she said. “But the decision itself is entirely Herc's, and I cannot influence it. He'd be the one giving up his job and changing his lifestyle. I refuse to put any pressure on him to do that – it wouldn't be fair. At any rate, this is not a subject open for discussion. We will change the subject now, or you will find the catering budget has been halved for the next three trips.”

An hour or two passed, during which they inched further across the Atlantic, towards Tony. Martin began to feel excited butterflies in his stomach, although he did his best not to show it. He'd spent more than enough time over the last year and a bit being teased by Douglas and Carolyn over his excitement whenever he got to see Tony. Besides, it had only been five days since Tony had been in Fitton and they'd talked a lot on the phone since then. Even more than usual, in fact.

That was part of the reason that Martin was so anxious to see him, in fact. Martin wasn't stupid, he could tell that Tony had been using him as a distraction all week, almost certainly from the urge to drink. He wasn't sure what it all meant, though. Had Tony actually listened to Martin's pretty rubbish attempt to talk to him about his drinking habits? Had Tony just had a harder week than usual? What was Martin going to find when he got to New York?

And, inevitably, what was going to happen after he'd left? MJN were only scheduled to be in New York for the night, then they'd fly Herr Bernard home tomorrow lunchtime, after he'd had his meeting with Pepper. That meant Martin and Tony would have less than eighteen hours together, at least eight hours of which Martin needed to spend asleep. If Tony was going through some kind of tough time, that wasn't going to be nearly long enough for Martin to help him.

****

Tony was waiting at the airport, holding up his _Captain Spitfire_ sign which was now looking more than a little battered. Martin beamed at him and gave him a kiss, which Tony turned into rather more than the simple peck Martin had intended. At the point when he had Martin bent over backwards like a black-and-white film heroine, Martin was aware of camera flashes going off around them and tried to find a sense of irritation that this was likely to be splashed all over the internet within hours. It was hard to care about anything like that with Tony pressed so close, though.

“You know, that kind of greeting makes being separated almost worth it,” said Tony.

Martin snorted and kissed him again. “No, it doesn't.”

“Yeah, okay, no, it really doesn't,” said Tony. “Even if it was only five days.”

“Felt like a long five days,” said Martin.

“Yeah,” agreed Tony with a heartfelt note in his voice that made Martin pull back and examine him properly. There were dark rings under his eyes and Martin wondered just how much sleep he'd had since leaving Fitton.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked.

Tony grinned. “I am now you're here,” he said, which wasn't a useful answer at all.

“Mr. Stark,” said an irritated German voice behind him. “I do hope you're here to explain precisely why I have been dragged all the way out here? I did have things that needed doing in Berlin, you know.”

Tony's grin turned fake as his gaze shifted over Martin's shoulder to focus on Herr Bernard. “Not tonight, I'm just here for Spitfire. We'll totally chat in the meeting tomorrow, though.”

“You'll be there?” said Herr Bernard. “I thought it would just be with Miss Potts.”

“Yeah, we figured it would be best if I came along too,” said Tony. “Until then, I expect there's a car around here somewhere for you, probably a hotel room, I'm just gonna take my boyfriend and have loads-”

Martin had known Tony long enough to know precisely when to jab an elbow into his ribs.

“-of long chats about meaningful things,” finished Tony smoothly, as if that had always been the intended end of the sentence.

“Of course,” said Herr Bernard, scathingly.

Martin wasn't really listening. “Which car did you bring?” Tony brought a different car every time he came to pick Martin up and then gave an extremely flimsy reason for why that particular one was appropriate. Martin's favourite reason had been when Tony had turned up in an SSC Ultimate Aero because, 'You guys call airplanes aeroplanes, right? So it's basically the closest I could get to a plane while still being a car'.

“The limo,” said Tony. “Happy's got it parked just outside, come on.”

Martin followed him with a frown. Tony only picked Martin up in the limo when he had drunk too much for even him to think he was okay to drive, or he was injured. Most of the time, he kept it solely for business travel.

“Are you okay?” he asked, once he and Tony were settled in the privacy of the back of the limo.

“Yeah, fine,” said Tony, which Martin knew to ignore as his standard response. “Just, you know. Not been sleeping so well.”

The dismissive tone of his voice meant that there was far more to it than that. Martin took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Anything I can help with?”

“No,” said Tony, then shook his head. “Well, okay, maybe. It's- you've already been helping. Those recordings you made for me were perfect, just great. Seriously, thank you.”

Martin had thought they were silly and had felt like a complete idiot when he'd made them. If they had actually helped Tony at all, that would be totally worth it. He ran a hand through Tony's hair. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

Tony made a face, then snorted a breath out of his nose. “That was the plan. Actual words are proving harder, though.”

Martin squeezed at his hand. “Well, okay, whenever you-”

“I stopped drinking,” interrupted Tony abruptly. “Haven't had a drop since I was at yours. Turns out I didn't have as much control over it as I thought, things got a bit- well, it was a rough few days, but it's better now. Mostly.”

“Oh,” said Martin, which had to be the most useless reaction ever. “Tony,” he said. “That's incredible.”

Tony let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah, a whole five days without using booze as a crutch, it's right up there with Bruce turning into a giant green rage machine, or-”

Martin didn't let him finish. He kissed Tony with every drop of affection and pride he was feeling. “It's incredible,” he repeated. “You're incredible. This time last week you wouldn't even admit you had a problem. And I'm guessing you haven't told anyone else, you've done it all on your own.”

Tony shrugged one shoulder. “JARVIS knew,” he said. “And, uh, I'm pretty sure Cap guessed. Maybe some of the others.”

“There is really nothing you can't do once you've set your mind to it,” said Martin, sounding more awed and starstruck than he really wanted.

Tony shook his head. “It's been less than a week,” he pointed out. “Very early days. Besides, I don't even know if I want it to be for good. Maybe just a breather, a chance to reset, you know?”

“I love you,” said Martin with all the certainty he felt about that. “Whatever happens, whatever you decide, that won't change.”

Tony gave him a knowing look. “But you'd prefer it if I gave up entirely.”

“I want you to be happy and healthy,” Martin reminded him. “Giving up for good would make you far healthier, but if it will make you miserable, well....”

“You know, it's stupid,” said Tony. “I should be happy now. I mean, look at me. Billionaire, superhero, got a bunch of awesome friends, many of whom I don't even pay, and a gorgeous boyfriend who cares about me, and yet I still find myself wanting a drink at the end of the day as a pick-me-up. Ridiculous.”

Martin didn't know what to say to that. He let the silence go on a bit too long, then bit his lip. “I should be happy too,” he confessed in a low voice. “I've got everything I ever wanted and a few things that I never would have even dreamed of.” He squeezed Tony's hand again to make it clear just what those things were. “But I'm actually only properly happy when we're together.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, that's it,” he said. “Fucking Atlantic Ocean, seriously. Who thought that was a good idea?”

Martin laughed. “I'm not sure that's how geography works,” he said, as they pulled into the Avengers Tower car park.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fucking geography,” he muttered, then tugged Martin out of the limo. “C'mon, let's go have as much crazy monkey sex as we can before our dinner reservations.”

****

They managed rather a lot of crazy monkey sex before they went to the restaurant. Martin had assumed they would.

The waitress clearly recognised Tony but she was discreet enough to try and hide it, and showed them to a secluded table without comment.

“Feels like I've been trying to get you here for months,” said Tony. “This was where our anniversary dinner should have been.”

Martin glanced around. “It's nice.”

“The food is great,” said Tony, opening a menu. “And,” he added triumphantly, “I asked three different people, and they all said it wasn't pretentiously over-priced.” He shut the menu again and passed it to Martin. “That one's the wine list.”

Martin put it on the edge of the table.

“You don't have to not drink just coz I'm not,” said Tony. “I don't want to be that guy that spoils everyone else's fun just coz he can't have any of his own.”

Martin shrugged. “I don't drink that much, it doesn't matter to me.”

Tony gave him a narrow-eyed look which Martin ignored. “Are their specials any good?” he asked, opening the food menu.

“Excellent,” said Tony, turning his attention to his own menu.

Their specials were excellent, and so was dessert. Martin ate rather more than he probably should have, then they walked back to the Tower together.

They had more sex once they got back, moving slowly together now that the urgency of earlier had worn off. Afterwards, they lay together in the half-light that Tony's arc reactor cast in the room and Martin gently traced his finger over the lines of Tony's chest.

“What's the plan for the morning?” he asked. “We're not flying out until lunch time.”

Tony sighed. “I've got to go to the meeting with Hans. Shouldn't take long, though. We're firing him, it's hard to stretch that out.”

Martin blinked. “You're firing him?”

“Yep,” said Tony, with satisfaction. “Seems insane to fly him all the way out here just to tell him to piss off, right? Pepper insisted we needed to speak to him face-to-face, show him the long list of reasons, give him the respect of the CEO and the owner being there, all that bull. Frankly, I just really want to see his face when he realises we've got grounds and he can't sue.”

“Carolyn will be pleased,” said Martin. “He was pretty rude to her.”

“He's pretty rude to everyone,” said Tony. “That's, like, reason three of the thirty-six we've got to fire him. And, do you know the best thing about it?”

Martin trailed his fingers over the arc reactor and shook his head.

“Means we have to find a replacement,” said Tony. “Which means we have to fly the candidates out from Europe to interview, which means MJN will be coming back here a bunch of times over the next few weeks.”

“You should interview as many candidates as possible,” said Martin, smiling at the thought. “And make them stay for week-long assessments.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the nearest part of Tony's skin, which was his shoulder.

Tony snorted. “Pretty sure Pepper would see through that.” He turned towards Martin, sliding an arm around his waist and stroking up his spine. “You know, I could tell Hans that now he's no longer employed by Stark Industries, he's not entitled to a private jet home, and book him in economy for the return trip, and then you guys could stay longer.”

“Mmm, that would be nice,” said Martin, leaning in to kiss Tony. “Except Douglas is seeing his daughter on Sunday and I'm pretty sure Carolyn has a date with Herc, although she'd never admit to it.”

Tony sighed. “Damn these guys who have lives in the country they actually live in.”

“It's very inconsiderate of them,” agreed Martin. “We should get them all partners in New York. Black Widow is single, isn't she?”

Tony sniggered. “Yeah, the clue there is in the name, Spitfire. If we set her up with Douglas, he won't last a week.”

“We could set her up with Arthur,” said Martin, smiling.

Tony buried his face in Martin's shoulder to hide his laughter. “Oh god, it would be like setting a kitten up with a puma.”

Martin joined in his laughter. “Yeah, okay, not the best plan.”

Tony stayed pressed close even after their laughter had faded. Martin held him close, curling his arms around his shoulders and wishing he could have this every night.

“Are you going to your workshop tonight?” he asked.

Tony shook his head against Martin's neck. “Nah. Think I'd rather be here.”

A glow of warmth spread through Martin's chest. “I love you,” he said softly, because he couldn't hold it in.

Tony pressed a kiss to Martin's neck. “Yeah, me too,” he said. He sounded drowsy, so Martin didn't continue the conversation. He just held him close as they both fell asleep.

****

Tony got up a lot earlier than Martin was interested in being awake. Before he left for his meeting, he pressed a kiss to Martin's forehead that made Martin flutter his eyes open.

“Morning, Spitfire,” he said.

Martin blinked at him, taking in the sharp suit and the sharper look in his eyes. “I think you're going to enjoy this too much.”

“I've been trying to get rid of this guy for years. I'm so pleased he's finally screwed up enough for me to take him out.”

Martin snorted. “Right, well, don't cackle in his face or do a victory dance or anything, will you?”

“Course not,” said Tony. “Well, okay, not until after he's out of the room.” He kissed Martin again. “See you in a bit, Spitfire.”

“See you,” said Martin, raising his head just enough to capture Tony's lips again then collapsing back against the pillows.

It took him another ten minutes to pull himself up to go to the bathroom. After a shower, he headed straight for the nearest source of coffee in the kitchen downstairs and then took it to settle on one of the sofas in the main lounge.

Arthur was on the balcony with Thor, wearing his cloak again and gesturing out at the sky in a way that Martin thought would probably end badly. It had to be somebody else's job to prevent the God of Thunder from accidentally killing their steward. Or, at least somebody else's job until Martin had drunk his first cup of coffee of the day.

Douglas had settled down with his book as if he was far too mature to be over-excited about the tower full of superheroes, but Martin couldn't help noticing that he'd picked the seat closest to where Captain America was eating toast and talking to Clint. He could see Douglas waiting for his chance to casually join in the conversation but as they were discussing ways to combat Hydra's recruitment techniques, he might be waiting a while.

Martin settled down and focused on his coffee. Everything else could wait.

He'd drunk just over half when he became aware that he was being watched. He lifted his head to find Black Widow standing in front of him, giving him an expressionless stare. He nearly whimpered with fear, but smothered it at the last moment.

“Morning,” he managed.

She raised one, unimpressed eyebrow. “Follow me,” she said, and turned away. Martin scrambled to his feet, still clutching his mug, and did so.

They went upstairs and down a landing that curved around the circumference of the tower and was mostly guest rooms. Martin wondered if she was taking him somewhere quiet so that she could kill him, and then forced himself to remember that she was one of the good guys and Tony's friend, and just because he found her terrifying didn't mean she was going to hurt him.

Probably.

She stopped outside a door right at the end of the corridor that looked like all the others. “Do you know what's in here?”

Martin stared at it, racking his brain to try and remember if he'd ever been this way before. He shook his head. “Another guest bedroom?” he guessed.

“No.” She pushed the door open and gestured for him to go inside.

He stepped inside and instantly forgot all about the fear of being eviscerated by a Russian super-spy.

“Oh,” he breathed out, looking around with wonder.

It was perfect. The walls were painted a pale blue, reflecting the sky outside the enormous floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of one wall. Across the back wall was a detailed mural of a Spitfire, a Cessna Skyhawk, a Starkjet 5000, a F-86A Sabre and a Lockheed McDonnel 3-12 flying in formation above a large sofa that was scattered with cushions with biplanes on. There was a large bookshelf covered with flight manuals to one side and a shelf in the corner with an extremely fancy-looking coffee machine next to a set of mugs from Duxford Air Museum. On the wall opposite was a large, holographic map. Martin stepped closer and realised it was a high-tech version of his paper map back home. 

“Oh, wow,” he heard himself say, his eyes flickering over it and noting that rather than just a coloured sticker to say if he'd taken off or landed somewhere, there were faintly glowing numbers detailing how many times he'd landed or taken off there. His eyes darted to the last place he'd landed; JFK, to find it was completely up-to-date. “This is incredible,” he said, eyes darting over the map. “Oh, hang on, I've taken off from O'Hare three times.”

The tiny red number changed from a two to a three.

“My apologies, Captain Crieff,” said JARVIS. “It is not always possible for me to discern who was operating the aircraft for each landing and take-off. I fear my figures for Fitton airport are woefully inadequate.”

“If I had my log book with me, we could get it perfect,” said Martin. “Next time-”

Black Widow sighed. “If I could pull your attention back to the point I was trying to make,” she said.

Martin pulled himself away from the map to turn back to her. She gestured at the room. “Tony made this for you.”

That much, Martin had realised. There was no one else who it could be for. “Yes.”

She gestured at a door in the corner. “That leads through to his bedroom. It's currently hidden behind a cupboard.” She pointed out the window. “Once the Quinjet hangar is complete, that window will have the best view in the Tower of it taking off and landing.”

Martin stared at the window and then dragged his eyes back to her. “Why are you the one showing it to me, then?”

“Martin,” she said quietly. “He did this _months_ ago. Before Christmas.”

“What?” asked Martin, staring around at it all again. “But-”

“You know all the Avengers have rooms here, don't you?” she continued. “He designed a suite for each of us not long after the Chitauri invasion: the first time we all came together. He got it all set up so that we each had our own perfect space and then bullied each of us into moving in, even those of us who already had a place in New York. He wouldn't take no for an answer.”

Martin looked around the room again. Now he was looking, he could see the gaps that had been left in it. The space on the wall where his framed Starkjet poster could go; the gaps in the bookcase where the flight manuals he already had would fit; the empty shelf just large enough for his Airfix planes. Tony had put this room together with one purpose.

“If he wants me to move in, why hasn't he asked me?”

“Because it has to come from you,” said Natasha. “Martin, you must see that.”

Martin thought of Tony last night saying, _Damn these guys who have lives in the country they actually live in,_ and what Carolyn had said about Herc. _The decision itself is entirely Herc's, and I cannot influence it. He'd be the one giving up his job and changing his lifestyle. I refuse to put any pressure on him to do that – it wouldn't be fair._

“Yes,” he said, his mouth going dry. “I do.”

Natasha nodded. “Good. Then this is in your hands.” She held out a piece of paper that Martin took automatically. “Either you drift along as you are with both of you miserable a lot of the time, or you end it now and save yourselves the grief, or you grab hold of a different future.”

She left the room without waiting for an answer, leaving Martin to unfold the paper.

It was a job advert for a company that did scenic flights over New York. They needed a pilot.

****

****

If Tony had realised that it would mean seeing Martin five times in three weeks, he'd have fired Herr Bernard much earlier. Hell, he was seriously contemplating firing all the other regional division heads just so he could make MJN fly candidates for the replacements back to New York. Martin had almost spent as much time at Tony's as he had in Fitton since Bernard had thrown his ridiculous hissy fit over being let go. It was awesome.

Okay, so Martin was in New York right now and yet Tony was on his own, but he couldn't completely abandon his workshop just because he could be shagging his boyfriend. The bots would all get abandonment complexes.

Well, that, and Martin had gone off somewhere. Which Tony was totally okay with, he was allowed to do his own thing, God knew that Tony did his best to monopolise his time and he deserved some alone time. Besides, Tony needed to rewire his left repulsor anyway.

And it wasn't at all making him worried that they'd spent too much time together and now Martin was sick of him and avoiding him, nope, not at all.

God, he needed a drink.

No, no he didn't. He wasn't going to touch a drop of alcohol until he felt like he could take it or leave it. He wasn't going to let things get as bad as they had been again, not if it meant he wasn't in control. Even if it felt like his skin was going to crawl off if he didn't have a drink right now.

“Captain Crieff is requesting entry,” said JARVIS.

“Always allow Captain Crieff entry,” said Tony and added a sleazy wink which was probably wasted on an AI, but Tony was a firm believer that you should never let a chance at innuendo slip by.

Martin was wearing a suit that probably cost less than Tony's cheapest tie, but he made it look so good that Tony immediately put it in his top ten favourite suits. 

He looked nervous about something, so Tony stepped forward to kiss the tension off his face.

Martin immediately backed away with his hands up. “Don't get oil on my one nice suit.”

Tony glanced at his grease-stained hands and rolled his eyes. “You know I'm good for the dry-cleaning bill. Besides, it's not your only nice suit. There are at least three suits in your size upstairs.”

“Those are your nice suits, which I occasionally model for you when the occasion calls for it,” said Martin with all the certainty of a man who has resolved a personal paradox with some convoluted mental gymnastics.

“Right, of course,” said Tony. “You going to let me in on just why you're all dressed up, then? Or is it just to tempt me with how hot you are like that, while not letting me touch? Cos that's a pretty special form of torture.”

Martin blushed faintly at the compliment but the reaction wasn't as strong as it would have been when Tony first met him. Apparently, he was getting used to being told he was hot. That was probably a good thing for his psyche, but Tony was going to miss the blushes.

Martin cleared his throat and clenched his fingers together. “Well, okay, it's- No, hang on, I should start with a confession.”

Tony felt himself freeze. Oh god, he'd been right. Martin had got bored and was about to dump him. And had put on a fancy suit to do it. Wait, no, that probably wasn't right.

“No,” said Martin, catching his sudden tension. “No, seriously, it's a good thing, well, I think it's a good thing, I hope you do too, if you don't then that's fine, we can just, um, forget it ever happened, not a problem. Or, well, I mean, I'd prefer it if we didn't, so- but-” He stuttered to a stop.

The familiarity of the bout of Crieff-babble made all the tension seep out of Tony. He leaned back against his workbench and crossed his arms. “Okay,” he said. “Go on, then. Confess.”

Martin drew in a deep breath. “Right. Well. Okay. Um. It's just-” He stopped himself, took another deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they held a look of complete determination. “I know about the room.”

Tony felt his guts freeze. Oh crap. “Which room?” he bluffed.

“My room,” clarified Martin, which was a better description than 'creepy-as-fuck shrine-like room that betrays your worryingly high level of obsession with me'. “Natasha showed me.”

Tony was going to kill her. Well, no, he wasn't, because he didn't have a chance against her, but he certainly wasn't going to build her any more cool gadgets.

“Don't look like that,” said Martin, stepping forward and grabbing Tony's hands, apparently forgetting about the oil covering them. “I'm not angry or, or whatever it is you're thinking.”

Tony plastered on a smile. He'd make the best of this now and worry about his mental breakdown later. “I got bored one night,” he said. “It got a bit out-of-hand, sorry. Probably should have cleared it all out, but there are so many rooms, didn't seem much point.”

“Please don't apologise,” said Martin, clutching his hands tighter. “I thought it was great. Just, perfect. Only, I'm not ever here long enough to really use it.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Tony. Bitterness seeped into his voice but he didn't bother trying to cover it. Martin knew exactly how much Tony hated that they lived miles apart. It was about the same amount that Martin hated it.

Martin looked down at where their fingers were clutched together rather than meeting Tony's eyes. “I've been offered a job.”

It was such a non sequitur that it took Tony a moment to understand what he'd said. “A job? When did you apply for a job? I thought you were happy at MJN.”

“I am,” said Martin. “Well, mostly. But, uh, this job. It's flying scenic tours out of Linden Airport.”

Tony stared. “Linden Airport?” he repeated. “Like, Linden, New Jersey? The one that's twenty miles away from here?”

“Yes,” said Martin. “I didn't think I'd get it, but I thought I might as well give it a try, and then I got full marks on the technical exam, which was easy, seriously, I don't know why anyone wouldn't know what increase in landing distance is required for a flap-thirty landing with auto spoilers inoperable, but then I had the interview and, well, I don't do very well at interviews so I thought there was no point in mentioning it, but, um, I had it this morning and they offered me the job before I'd even left the office.”

He sounded as surprised by that as Tony was by all the rest of it. Tony wasn't sure why. If he needed a pilot, Martin would be the only person he'd think to offer the job to. What kind of an idiot would employ someone else once Martin had applied?

“So you're moving to New York?” he asked, trying to not let the excitement burst out of him.

Martin shrugged, still not looking up to meet Tony's eyes. “Well, that's up to you, really. If you want me to-”

“If I want you to?” interrupted Tony. "Are you kidding? Spitfire, that's all I've wanted for months. I was trying to figure out how I could move to Fitton until Pepper and Steve double-teamed me to point out that I can't run SI or be an Avenger long-distance.”

“Oh,” said Martin, finally looking up at Tony. A beaming smile spread out over his face. “Okay. Well. Then, I suppose I'll call them back and accept.”

"Fuck yeah," said Tony and then couldn't resist pulling him in for a kiss. Screw whether or not his suit got oil on it. Martin kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm, so clearly he wasn't that bothered either.

“When do you start?” asked Tony. “How soon can you move here? Do you even need to go back to the UK? We can just get all your stuff packed up and sent over, it'll be fine.”

“I have to work my notice period at MJN,” said Martin. “That's a month. I was worried that they wouldn't be able to replace me because of, you know, how low my wages are, but Carolyn said it would be fine.”

“You checked with your current boss before you applied for another job?” asked Tony, amused.

“MJN has been good to me.”

“They didn't pay you until last year,” Tony reminded him.

Martin shrugged and Tony was reminded all over again just how little money meant to him, for all his fussing over Tony buying him things. As long as he got to fly, Martin didn't care that he was living in poverty. Tony could respect that kind of dedication to something you loved doing. This was marking the end of it, though. If Martin moved into the Tower, he was going to have to get used to Tony making sure he had everything he needed, or wanted, or even just considered the idea of one time.

“At any rate, Carolyn told me I was an idiot for not having looked for something here earlier and pointed out that with the SI contract, and all the bookings from Mr. Alyakin, MJN is in a position to hire a new pilot without any problems. Particularly if she promotes Douglas to captain but doesn't give him a raise with it. Which he'd take just for the pleasure of finally being in charge.”

Tony huffed a laugh. “She's pretty cut-throat. No wonder Pepper gets on with her.”

“Plus,” added Martin, with a twitch of an amused eyebrow, “Herc was there when I mentioned it to her and pretty much hinted that if she wanted him to stay in England, rather than go to Zurich, he'd take over as first mate on whatever salary she could afford.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “I bet she loved that.”

“Her eyes lit up with pound signs,” agreed Martin. “Herc clearly decided it was worth it to get to stay close to her, though.”

“I think I know exactly how he feels,” said Tony, kissing Martin again. “Man, I can't wait to have you here all the time.”

“You're sure you're okay with me moving in?” asked Martin. “I can find my own place if it's too soon.”

Tony laughed. “You're kidding, right? It's awesome. Seriously, the best thing. In fact, a month's time, that's when the Quinjet is due to be ready. We'll combine your moving in party with the official launch.”

Martin beamed. “Sounds perfect.”

****

They had the party in the Quinjet hangar itself, even if it did lack some of the elegant ambiance that Tony usually expected from the decor for his parties. The plane itself was just too damned pretty not to have it on display, plus the way Martin kept wandering off to inspect parts of it with a look of wonder was totally adorable. Not to mention the occasionally sneaky stroke across the fuselage that he clearly thought no one had noticed.

They skipped the champagne and had fizzy grape juice instead. The fact that no one commented on it was a pretty clear sign to Tony that he hadn't been nearly as stealthy about giving up alcohol as he'd thought. Maybe the mood swings and the irritability had given him away although, frankly, he'd just figured that would blend into his normal personality.

No one had said anything, though. Clint had just started keeping his beer in his room without comment and one day Tony had gone into the lounge and found that the bar had been completely emptied. Which was great for his will power, but it meant that the focal point of the room was now essentially an empty set of cupboards. Tony had been thinking about taking it out and putting in pool tables. Maybe a giant surround-sound games system.

MJN had flown Martin and his belongings over, so Carolyn, Herc, Arthur and Douglas were at the party as well as all the Avengers, their significant others and hangers on. It made the hangar a bit crowded. 

Douglas had taken the chance of a flight with no real passengers to bring his daughter and one of her friends along in the hope of impressing her with his connections, so there were two pre-teen girls tucked in a corner together, giggling and ogling all the superheroes rather blatantly. Tony had noticed Clint flexing his biceps whenever they looked at him, which looked as if it was going to end with some kind of bizarre, over-the-top teenage meltdown.

Tony snuck up behind where Martin was gently petting the rudder hinges and put his arms around his waist. Martin startled for a moment, then leaned back into his embrace, turning his head to give him a wide smile.

“It's even prettier in reality that it was in the blueprints.”

“Right?” said Tony. “Didja see the winglets?”

Martin gave a little shudder. “Oh, yes,” he said breathlessly.

“Oh man, we have to sneak in here when no one else is around,” said Tony. “We are going to have the best sex in this plane, seriously.”

Martin's gaze twitched around to see if anyone was close enough to have heard. “I wish I could pretend I'd be able to resist doing that.”

“We're going to have so much awesome sex now you're here all the time,” said Tony, bending just enough to kiss Martin's neck. “We're going to piss every single one of these fuckers off.”

Martin turned in his arms to return the kiss with interest. “You're not allowed to talk me into anything that could end with Bruce becoming the Hulk.”

Tony considered that. “Yeah, okay, deal. That would probably be a mood-killer.” He wiped the thoughts of getting Martin naked in as many parts of the Tower as possible away and remembered why he had come over in the first place. “C'mon, Spitfire. Time for the launch.”

He put his hand on the small of Martin's back and guided him towards the door of the Quinjet.

“We already did that,” protested Martin.

Tony had made Martin cut the ribbon that sent a bouquet of flowers smashing against the nose of the Quinjet, and got JARVIS to take enough photos for them all to be able to find a good one of all the Avengers gathered around Martin to release to the media. No point in a press release that only did one thing, after all. Tony wanted the bad guys to know that they had a super-cool jet to chase them down in _and_ that Martin was under the protection of the whole team, as well as let everyone who had read that stupid article about him and Martin know that their relationship was stronger than ever.

“That was just ceremony,” said Tony, flicking his hand at the sensor in the door for long enough for it to recognise his palm print and open. “Don't you know the meaning of 'launch', Spitfire? _To send forth, catapult, or release_. As far as I'm concerned, that means we've got to get this bird in the air to do it properly.”

Martin turned to gape at him. Tony allowed him two seconds to have an aviation-related heart attack at the thought of being in the Quinjet on its first real flight and then added the kicker.

“And as you're the guest of honour, I guess you should be the one to fly her.”

For a moment he thought he'd gone too far and Martin's heart would actually burst. “Wh-what?” he managed after a moment.

Tony put his arm around him a bit tighter to keep him upright and turned to wave at the others. “Time for her first flight. Who's coming up with us?” he called.

“Depends,” said Clint. “Are you guys going to have sex up there?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You're kidding, right? No way Spitfire would let me fuck him if he thought it would be a contravention of CAA rules and regs.”

Martin pulled himself together enough to say. “I don't just _think_ it would be, it _would_ be.”

“We should all go,” said Steve. “It's an important moment for the whole team.”

“I think I'll stay on the ground until I've seen it make at least one flight without exploding,” said Douglas. “No offence, Stark.”

“None taken,” said Tony, cheerfully. “I only solved the likely-to-explode thing at the last minute in the design.”

For some reason that discouraged several other people from coming up. While people made up their minds, Tony pulled Martin into the plane and pushed him into the pilot's seat.

“I made sure the controls would be easy enough for you to get to grips with,” he said as Martin took in the display in front of him.

“Yes,” said Martin in a distracted voice, running his hands over the steering column and the displays.

Tony left him to it. As much as Martin loved him, they both knew he'd only ever be playing second fiddle to the nearest piece of aviation technology. Which was cool, it wasn't like Martin didn't sometimes have to come in second to Tony's intense love of blowing shit up in incredible fancy ways.

“This is so exciting!” said Arthur as the door sealed up behind him. “Take us up, Skip!” He frowned. “Wait, am I still allowed to call you Skip now you're not GERTI's captain?”

“He's the skipper of this plane,” said Tony.

Martin's head spun to stare at him and then he turned to look at his passengers. Tony could see the exact moment when he realised he was going to have to fly a completely new plane while watched by his last boss, a super-spy archer, a Norse god, Captain America and Arthur. Well, okay, so Arthur probably wasn't scaring him that much compared to the others.

“Oh god,” choked Martin. “I can't- Someone else should-”

“You're kidding, right?” said Clint. “This bird has your name written all over her. Literally.” He sank into the seat next to Martin's. “Seriously, no need to panic, you flew the SHIELD jet, right? That was way more difficult. They just love making shit like that stupidly complicated.”

Martin turned back to the controls and Tony watched as he drew in a deep breath and centred himself. “This does all look fairly standard.”

Clint clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Awesome. Then take us up, Skip. I'll be your co-pilot.” He snapped his seatbelt closed and gave Martin an expectant look.

Martin's spine straightened and Tony found himself overtaken by a wave of love for him. “Right. Everyone find a seat. Commencing pre-flight checks.”


End file.
